


Half Price Gemini

by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee



Series: Secondhand Saints [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Baker!Gabe, Castiel Being Castiel, Castiel Needs a Hug, Castiel and Dean Winchester Being Idiots, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Cute, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Neighbours, Castiel and Jimmy Novak Are Twins, Castiel is a Good Dad, Dean is a Good Friend, Destiel - Freeform, Doctor!Sam, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Feels, Family Secrets, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Found Family, Gabe is ridiculous, Gabriel Being Gabriel, Gen, Human AU, M/M, Sam is a Saint, Teacher!Dean, and a better boyfriend, artist!castiel, hugs for everyone, so does Claire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 93,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3370175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee/pseuds/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his twin's death and a hospital mix-up eccentric artist Castiel is left with his brother Jimmy's identity and responsible for Claire, Jimmy's young daughter. Afraid of losing his niece if social services learns of the name-switch, Cas & Claire move to a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. A town full of Winchesters, nosy ones. Things spiral out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Claire

**Prologue: Claire Novak**

                  Claire Novak was born one week and four days early.  There were three people in the delivery room other than the perquisite doctors and nurses.  Her mother: Amelia Novak.  Her father: James Novak. And then there was the third person. And in many, many ways, ways both painful and beautiful and everything in between, that third person was the most important of all.  His name was Castiel Novak. And he was James’ identical twin brother. 

                  But that’s not important quite yet. 

                  All that matters right now is that when Claire Novak was born there were three faces looking down into her blue eyes.  Three people to remember and know and understand. Three people to love and hate and miss with all her heart and soul. 

                  But that’s not quite important yet either. 

…

                  From the beginning Claire Novak was the only one who could accurately tell Castiel and James apart every single time.  Even Amelia would sometimes make the classic slip-up of asking her husband to do something and then realizing that the only other person in the room was his twin.  When Claire was very young she didn’t understand where the confusion came from. It didn’t matter that they had the same face, the same shape, everything that was _Daddy_ and everything that was _Castiel_ was different.  When other family members, other uncles, aunts, even her mother, asked Claire about it all she could say was this:

                  “Casti is Casti.  Daddy is Daddy. Duh.” 

                  Even as a toddler who couldn’t quite pronounce ‘Castiel’, Claire had sass. She would need it down the road. But again, that’s not quite important yet.

…

                  As a small child Claire saw her uncle Castiel’s apartment as a kind of wonderland.  It was a magical place full of bright colors and strange things and paint to play with and a typewriter that made a funny ding whenever she finished a line and papers and pencils and art _everywhere._ Mommy and Daddy would sometimes say that Castiel was ‘irresponsible’ and a ‘bad influence’ and that his apartment wasn’t safe for a child.   But Claire treasured the time she could spend with her uncle.  She loved how he would sweep her into his arms and carry her around his workroom and tell her all about his paintings and projects and the meaning of life and the stories behind the constellations and the life cycle of bees and all sorts of fascinating things. 

                  When she was three she saw her first beehive.  Castiel very carefully pulled out a honeycomb from the hive he kept on his balcony and showed her all the bees busy at work and all of the tiny honey combs they swarmed over in a busy mess of black and yellow and gold. When she told Mommy about it when she got home she thought Amelia might faint.   That night she overheard Daddy talking very quietly and intensely with Castiel over the phone, words hissing out like furious steam between his teeth, hot and intense and a bit scalding.  She didn’t know what the words meant exactly, but she could sense that perhaps she or her uncle had done something wrong. 

                  Claire’s afternoons with Castiel grew fewer and farther between and he never showed her the bees again. 

…

                  The fire changed everything. 

…

                  It had been a quiet evening.  Claire, now five years old and very proud of it, ran to answer the door. Her uncle Castiel stood in the doorway, a bag slung over his shoulder, his worn old trench coat hanging around his shoulders like an old friend.  When she ran to hug him he smiled at her, but there were lines around his eyes and his hug was looser and tired-er than normal.  But little Claire didn’t notice. 

                  Daddy walked over and took Castiel’s bag, placing a hand on his shoulder and gripping it tight.  “You okay, little brother?” he asked. 

                  “Little brother?  I think not. And I am quite aquamarine.”

                  Daddy snorted, “You know I don’t get it when you talk in your little color-coded riddles.”

                  “I know.  Why do you think I say them?”

                  “You always were a mess.” 

                  “Hmm…”

                  There was a pause. 

                  “Seriously, bro, how’re you holding up?”

                  “Meg is holding my personal possessions hostage.  How do you think I am ‘holding up’?”

                  “Ooh, ex is already fighting dirty?  I’m sorry, man.  Come on; let’s get you into the kitchen so Amelia can feed you.  You look starved.  And leave the trenchcoat, you know Amelia hates it.” 

                  Daddy carried the duffle bag off.  Only Claire heard Castiel murmur “Thank you, brother,” as he ran a weary hand down his face. 

                  Claire, at a loss, hugged him one more time and grabbed his hand and tugged him towards the warm kitchen and comforting family. 

                  It was a quiet evening. 

                  Castiel slept on the couch that night.  Peace slowly descended on the Novak house.  A sneaking, creeping quiet that should have warned them that something terrible was going to happen that night. 

                  No one knew what started the fire.  Claire didn’t really recall much from that night.  Her memories were jagged and sharp, grating against her mind like a broken bone left unset.  Bright flames licking their way through the house with their hot little tongues, smoke swirling around, gagging and choking her.  A wet trench coat and strong arms wrapping around her, flying – or maybe running – it was all very jumbled, through the burning house. Voices shouting and screaming. Her knees hitting the pavement, strangers in firefighter coats and doctor uniforms swarming all around her. Footsteps pounding away. Shrugging off the coat and turning in time to see the retreating back of Castiel bolting back into the house.

                  The burning house. 

                  After that it was just a bunch of shouting.

                  “Stop that man!”

                  “What the hell is he doing?!”

                  “The house is going to collapse!”

                  “Jimmy! Amelia! James Novak, goddammit!  Jimmy, where the fuck are you?” 

                  The last voice seemed to grow louder and louder even though technically Claire shouldn’t have been able to really hear it at all. It was Castiel’s voice, rising in desperation, breaking and cracking in the smoke and the blaze just like the house Claire had been sleeping in minutes before.

                  Castiel dragged Amelia out.  And he went back in for his twin.  The paramedics had to drag both of them out.  Claire watched it happen, beyond even crying. 

…

                  Only three of the four people in the house that night survived. Claire, who had only minor smoke inhalation and a burn or two.  Amelia, who upon regaining consciousness began sobbing incoherently; babble buzzing at her lips like angry bees.  Most of her injuries were smoke and psychological.  And finally, one of the twins survived.  Claire didn’t see which one at the hospital.  All she knew, in the vague, slightly omniscient way that children have, was that there had been some confusion as to which twin had lived. Apparently the survivor was still unconscious and Amelia was in no fit state to identify him.  There was no next of kin available at the time. No one thought to ask Claire, the one person who had always been able to tell. 

                  They ultimately decided the coma patient must be James Novak. The paperwork filled out, the forms all signed.  Apparently Castiel Novak was dead.  Claire cried. It was a few more days before the comatose man awoke.  He was discharged quietly a day or so later, the orderlies and staff solemnly addressing him as ‘Mr. Novak’ as they wheeled him out to his taxi.  Amelia and Claire followed suit the next day.

                  A few days of hotel rooms later found them suddenly standing in front of the door to Castiel’s old apartment.  And when the door opened and the burned man greeted them in a smoke-roughened voice, Claire knew that the hospital had made a terrible mistake.

                  Castiel had lived.  Jimmy, _Daddy_ had died.   And somehow, someway, the hospital had bungled things. Because this was Castiel standing there, looking down at her with weary blue eyes.  It was almost funny.  In that moment, in that second everyone there but Castiel himself knew that one clerical error had turned him into his twin. 

                  A few days passed. Things began to reach some sort of ‘normal’ point.  Even if that ‘normal’ was the fun-house mirror equivalent of such a thing.  And then Amelia went out to get groceries for the first time since the fire.  She left early in the morning, before Castiel or Claire was awake.  That morning Claire woke before Castiel.  She wandered into the kitchen and saw a pile of food-filled plastic grocery bags sitting on the countertop, a single sheet of paper fluttering underneath them.  Somehow knowing that it was important, much more important than bread or eggs or whatever else was lurking in those plastic bags, she tugged it free.   The five year old squinted at the print but couldn’t decipher the script. Despairing of understanding the note, she carried it over Castiel’s sleeping form.  The tiniest of shakes made him leap into wakefulness, the man sitting bolt upright in the middle of the bed, blinking down at his niece.

                  “This was with the groceries,” Claire held out the note.

                  Castiel plucked it from her fingers and read it in under a minute. Each word seemed to dig a new furrow in his face, dragging it down into lines even heavier and wearier than before. After he finished skimming it, Castiel folded it into tiny sections, creasing sharper and sharper as he went. Finally he couldn’t fold anymore. Looking down at the paper as if it had offended him, Castiel huffed, pulled it out of its careful folds, smoothed it flat, glowered at the scrap of notebook paper for a solid five seconds, then tore it into confetti.  Tossing the scraps over his shoulder he bounced to his feet and began pacing around the apartment, grabbing luggage and bags and boxes wherever and whenever he could, tossing things into them with a kind of manic hap-hazardness.

                  When Claire finally managed to get his attention she asked, “What are you doing?”

                  “The question is: what are _we_ doing?”

                  “Ok, what are _we_ doing?”

                  “Leaving. We are fucking leaving.”

                  “Language,” Claire parroted the words she had heard oft-repeated by her parents. Before the fire, of course. Everything normal happened before the fire. 

                  “We are flipping leaving, then.  You and me.  We are leaving.”

                  “What about Mommy?” 

                  “She beat us to it.”

                  And that was that.  Castiel didn’t tell Claire what was in the note until she was much older. It had been simple and to the point.

_Castiel,_

_This is all just too much right now.  Take care of Claire, I’m going…somewhere. I’ll let you know._

_-Amelia_

_Don’t try to find me._

                  And that was how Claire’s father died, and her mother left, and her uncle, the third person in the delivery room, become the most important of them all.

…

                  They stopped running somewhere in the Midwest.  One day they were in a diner, facing each other across a chipped formica table, eating burgers and fries, drinking shakes and trying to pick a slice of pie for dessert.  Castiel stopped, the burger halfway to his mouth when he froze and lowered the food. He slowly rotated his head, taking in the whole of the diner with wide blue eyes.  Claire mimicked him, unsure what was going on. Halfway through their second head-rotation, Castiel’s eyes met hers across the table. 

                  “This place is perfect.” 

                  Claire nodded eagerly, catching some of the energy pouring off of Castiel in waves as he registered the sheer ‘perfectness’ of the place and the town and the universe all around them.  He seemed to absorb it, drawing it into his still body, building off of it, drinking the energy of the slice of world they currently sat in.

                  “Very green.” 

                  And Claire knew he didn’t mean eco-friendly.  He was using that weird color-code thing that had driven Daddy a little crazy.  The one that made perfect sense to little five-year-old Claire.  He hadn’t used the color-code since the night before the fire.

                  “A green place,” Castiel murmured. 

                  “We could stay, here, in this town,” Claire suggested quietly.

                  Castiel blinked and looked at her in surprise.  “Yes,” he murmured, “Yes, this might do nicely.”

                  Claire watched his face intently for a minute or so, waiting for a decision to flicker across his expressive eyes. 

                  The minute passed. Castiel blinked and furrowed his brow at her, dropping out of his little mental world and watching her with his head cocked to the side like a bird.  “You know we’re staying in this town, right?  I wouldn’t want it to come as a shock.”  His eyes crinkled on the last few words.  He was teasing her, but he was also serious.  They were finally staying somewhere.  Relief bloomed in her stomach and she almost couldn’t finish her lunch, she was so happy. Almost.  They did end of eating three slices of celebratory pie between the two of them. 

…

                  It was almost as if the town itself wanted the strange man and little girl to stay.  The very next day Castiel stumbled upon a man who was trying to sell his used bookstore so he and his wife could finally retire.  Castiel made a cash offer in the middle of the gas station convenience store. The man laughed for a good minute before he realized Castiel was serious. 

                  A day later, sitting in on their boxes in the middle of the apartment above their newly purchased used bookstore, Claire decided that they needed ground rules if they were going to stay somewhere permanently.  Ground rules were a thing one had when in a house. Mommy and Daddy had always had them. She and Castiel could have some too.

                  The first one they decided was this: they had to keep pretending that Castiel was Jimmy.  Little Claire didn’t quite get why but she knew that Castiel said that if the government found out that he wasn’t actually Claire’s daddy they might try to take her away. And that was too terrible an idea for the five year old to contemplate.  So they pretended that he was Jimmy.

                  Claire countered the first rule with her own offer.  If she had to pretend he was Daddy in front of other people then she had to be allowed to call Castiel whatever she wanted when it was just the two of them.  To this Castiel responded by looking her straight in the eye and promising this: “No matter what, no matter where you are, no matter what name you use for me, I will always be there when you call me.”  And that was how Castiel Novak (now known as Jimmy) spent a whole year as ‘Steve’, a solid two weeks as ‘Unicorn’ and a month as ‘Sparkles’. 

                  There were more rules, little silly things.  Most of them were for Claire, ordinary things like bedtime and ‘do your homework’ and ‘try to make your bed semi-regularly’.   Some Claire made up for Castiel when she was older and realized that you can put the eccentric artist in the bookshop but you can’t take the eccentricity out of the artist. It was mostly to prevent Castiel from being rude to tourists.  The locals (for some bizarre reason yet to be understood by man) loved his abrasive and occasionally odd approach to customer service.  Then again, a year after their move in-town Gabriel (an obscure Novak cousin the twins had known well as kids but had drifted away from as adults) opened a pastry shop in one storefront down from ‘Beehive Books’. And Gabriel was almost as bad as Cas in his own unique way. 

                  And so eight years slid past and one day Claire woke up one day to realize that she was thirteen and her uncle/father figure was loudly heckling someone from the apartment’s front window.  Great. It appeared they had a new neighbor. Groaning, not sure she wanted to face that insanity just yet, Claire rolled over and covered her ears with a pillow. She would face the music and the new neighbor later. 


	2. Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Cas has essentially assumed Jimmy’s identity at this point and because everyone he meets other than Claire is under the impression that he is Jimmy he will be referred to as ‘Jimmy’ when the POV character believes he is Jimmy. When the story is from his or Claire’s POV he will be referred to as ‘Castiel’.

**Chapter 1: Sam Winchester**

                  The storefront between ‘Beehive Books’ and ‘Trick or Treat: an Unusual Bakery’ was rumored to be cursed.  This had yet to be proven.  However, the data did seem to point in that direction.  Fact: the empty storefront had never, in the eight years that Castiel and Claire had been living in the tiny town, been occupied for more than six months. Also fact: there were two apartments squashed into the space above the empty storefront and they were _tiny._ This was largely due to the fact that they were never meant to be two separate apartments in the first place, the wall dividing them being a last minute addition to the structure by an eccentric engineer.  The unfortunate consequence of this hasty structural decision was that one of the apartments didn’t have a shower and both only had half of a kitchen. Meanwhile the apartment above the book shop and the apartment above the bakery were spacious two-bedroom affairs. However, poor apartment planning and what appeared to be a legitimate curse on the middle storefront itself (it was included in the ghost tour and everything.  Gabriel made a killing peddling his overpriced pastries to the nighttime tourists) should not have been enough to keep away potential purchasers of the shop and apartments. 

                  No, the neighbors took care of any lingering stragglers.

                  Castiel (or James as everyone had called him these past eight years), was… _unusual._   Gabriel was an incurable prankster with a wicked sense of humor and a wit not completely appropriate for all ages.  And they had a little game they would play every time someone dared to attempt to move into the storefront between them. This was the heckling now-thirteen-year-old Claire had awoken to that lazy July Tuesday. 

                  Let it be known that Gabriel did start it.  That morning, fueled by one too many mochas and an excess of hyperactivity, the baker peered out the front window of his apartment (which was perched above his own shop) and spotted the moving truck lumbering down the road.  He tracked it with his eyes, watching for a solid three minutes as it creaked to a halt in front of the unoccupied storefront and began disgorging people. People with boxes. _Moving_ boxes.  A lot of moving boxes. 

                  Oh no, this would not do.  Not at all.

                  Gabriel, figuring the freakishly tall guy unloading boxes in the middle of their parking lot had asked for it and had better be able to suck it up and take it like man, leaned out of the front window of his apartment, took aim and threw a stale bread roll at his cousin’s front window, yelling as he did so: “Jimmy, wake up, we have campers!” 

                  A few minutes later a tousled head of dark hair popped out of the other window, peering first at Gabriel and then down at the man standing in their parking lot.  He gave Gabriel The Nod. It was time to begin hazing the new additions to their little building. 

                  Gabriel sucked in a huge lungful of air before releasing it all in one loud blast “HELLOOOO CAMPERS!”

                  The other Novak took up the game within seconds of Gabriel’s last syllable dropping on the head of the man in the parking lot.  “WELCOME TO CAMP CHIQUITA!”

                  “And isn’t it a fine morning?” Gabriel shouted the not-a-rhetorical-question with a flourish.

                  “We do hope all you boys and girls have come prepared for your first night at camp!” Jimmy added. 

                  Gabriel took up the banter again, “Sleeping bags, food and machetes will not be provided by The Management!  All weaponry is up to you!”

                  “We do hope you took the time to read your informational pamphlet - No? Well then, boys and girls this first night will be rough, let me assure you.”  A dark-haired head shook mournfully. 

                  “But not to worry, kiddos!” Gabe hastened to ‘reassure’ their audience, “We at Camp Chiquita take pride in our stats!”

                  “We’ve only lost three campers to zombie attack within the past six months!” Jimmy announced. 

                  “Now that’s exciting stuff, boys and girls, ex-cite-ting stuff.” Gabriel made sure to stretch out the ‘exciting’ for extra emphasis, emphasis was very important with this sort of thing. 

                  They could have gone on, and the citizens of their little township most likely assumed the would, if the small crowd gathering around the storefronts was anything to go by, when the man (who was currently trying to carry his boxes into the formerly-empty storefront) dared to be _polite._ He squinted up at the two of them, shaking shaggy bangs out of hazel eyes and called, “Hi there, I’m Dr. Winchester.  I guess this is the ‘welcome to the neighborhood’ committee?” He didn’t even sound offended. Gabriel was hurt. Obviously the Novak professional pride was at stake here.  Not even bothering to check with Jimmy, Gabriel decided to step up the antics a notch.

                  “Ooh! A _doctor!”_ Gabriel chirped, fanning himself dramatically, tossing a wink at his cousin before he continued speaking, this time in an outrageously fake southern drawl, “Oh, happy day, Mama!  A gentleman caller and he’s a _doctor!_ Hurray!”

                  Jimmy laughed, “How chartreuse of you, kind sir!” he declared, tipping an invisible hat at the man standing in the parking lot before ducking back into his own apartment.

                  Gabriel took that as his cue to give a final over-done fake-swoon, trilling “A _doctor!”_ before slipping back into his apartment.  Not too bad a turn-out for a fresh-meat heckling.  And the response from their victims, while unexpected, was just hilarious. Too perfect.  Gabe had the feeling that this would be a fun day.

…

                  Claire was standing in the living room, waiting for Castiel to pop back into the room after his final salutation to the new neighbor.  Apparently he was ‘chartreuse’.  At least that was better than the last neighbors. Those were apparently ‘puce’. And puce neighbors never lasted long.

                  When Castiel slid back through the window he nearly head-butted his waiting neice. He blinked, suprised. “Too much?” he asked; blue eyes huge and innocent as he referenced the heckling he had just rained down on the newest addition to the building.

                  Claire tried to angry with him.  She tried to dredge up some irritation at the very least.  But no such luck.  A smile was trying to sneak its way across her face and…wait…there it was, twitching across her lips, spasming through her eyebrows until she was helplessly snickering along with her uncle. 

                  “No,” Claire hissed as she tried to catch her breath, “No, that was _hilarious._ ”

                  “It was, wasn’t it?” 

                  Claire snorted, and shook her head.  “You and Gabe…”

                  “Are incorrigible,” they finished the statement together.

                  Castiel raised his eyebrows, “Variety in vocabulary, Claire,” he reminded her; tapping her nose with one long, slim finger, “We wouldn’t want you getting predictable.” 

                  Claire snorted again and turned away, towards the kitchen, “Do you want some breakfast?” she asked, assuming she would have to make something for the both of them.  Castiel was not the type to remember feeding himself when left to his own devices.   

                  Castiel was already gone when she turned around. 

                  “Incorrigible,” she muttered again, realizing that he had left a plate of toast and bacon and a glass of orange juice sitting on the counter, waiting for her. Shaking her head at her strange father-figure, Claire took a big bite out of the toast and wondered what the day would bring. 

…

                  “ _chartreuse?”_ Dean’s voice crackled on the other end of the line, rising in incredulity with every syllable, _“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”_

                  Sam shrugged, juggling the phone on his shoulder as he unpacked, “I have no idea, dude.  All he said was that I was being ‘chartreuse’.  Isn’t that a color or something?”

                  _“Dude, do I look like I know?”_

“Umm, Dean, you do realize we’re using a phone.  I can’t actually see you.”

                  _“Figure of speech, Sammy.”_

“Uh-huh. I think the stress is getting to you.”

                  _“I’m fine, Sammy, how many times to I have to tell you?”_

Sam snorted doubtfully, but kept his mouth shut.  He didn’t want to fight with Dean over this.  Dean was a SWAT cop back in New York and a damn good police detective, too. But lately he’d seemed even more frayed at the edges than normal.  Sam hoped some time back here, in the town they’d grown up in, might get him back on the right side of normal again.  So, instead of pressing the issue, Sam changed the subject, “So are you still coming down to help me get everything moved in?” 

                  _“Sammy, don’t ask stupid questions. Do you seriously think I’d miss my baby brother starting his own practice in the town we grew up in?”_

“Dean, you almost forgot to go to your own senior prom, you’re not really one for ‘big events’.”

                  _“Shut up, that was stupid-ass Prom. When have I ever missed anything important in your life?”_

Sam huffed out a sigh and smiled, “Never.”

                  _“Damn right, bitch.”_

“Yeah, yeah, jerk.”

                  There was a moment of peaceful, brotherly contentment.

                  “So I’ll see you Friday?” Sam asked.

                  _“Yep, I’ve just got to close this last case and I’ll be there.”_

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

                  _“Yeah, yeah,”_ Dean mimicked Sam’s earlier statement. 

                  “Bye, Dean.”

                  _“See ya, man.”_

                  Sam hung up the phone and tossed it aside, making sure it landed safely in a box of t-shirts.  Right now he was focused on making the tiny apartment (he had taken the one with a shower) livable. And avoiding his neighbors. He did _not_ remember seeing those guys the last time he was home. The last time he’d been in Orcastle (a pretentious name for what amounted to a very small town) the bookstore was owned by a sweet elderly couple and the bakery was a coffee shop that served coffee so terrible it became a local sport seeing how many cups one person could down in one sitting without gagging or vomiting.

                  Sam rocked back on his heels and wondered at how much could change in ten years.  It almost made him sad, the thought of Orcastle growing and changing without him and his brother around to mark the alterations, as tiny and seemingly insignificant as they were. Sam shook his head, dislodging the nostalgic thoughts and returned to unpacking with a renewed passion. He needed to be able to live in this place after all, and having nothing but cardboard boxes and a phone accessible would not get him very far. 

…

                  “I nominate Claire as tribute!” Gabriel proclaimed, as he sauntered into Beehive Books at around half-past-ten. 

                  It was a statement of how desensitized the town had become to Novak antics that not a single customer bothered to glance up at this strange proclamation.

                  Claire glanced up from her copy of ‘Catching Fire’, “Very funny, Uncle Gabe,”

                  “Appreciation for my fine sense of humor will not get you out of your nomination, missy,” Gabriel hopped up on the checkout counter and grabbed three of the free lollipops, unwrapping all of them with a single flourish, popping all three into his mouth at once. 

                  “No sacrificing my offspring to pagan gods without my written consent, Gabriel,” Castiel admonished him. 

                  Claire snorted at her uncle, still absentmindedly wondering how Gabe had managed to un-wrap all those lollipops at once. 

                  “No, no, nothing like that, Jimbo!” Gabe hastened to reassure him.

                  “No sacrificing her to non-pagan gods either,” Castiel clarified.

                  Gabe rolled his eyes childishly, “You are no fun at all, are you Jim?”

                  “You’re annoyingly yellow today, Gabe.”

                  “And you’re annoyingly blue!”

                  “Hmm, and I had thought I was safely violet.  I’ll have to check this.” 

                  “What? No, oh whatever! You’re missing the point. I’m volunteering Princess Clarabelle to do a little spying for us!”  Gabe re-directed the conversation, grabbing Claire’s hand and pulling her into a twirl in front of the checkout counter. 

                  “The chartreuse neighbor?”  Castiel asked with a single raised eyebrow. 

                  “The very same!” Gabe chirped. 

                  Claire pulled out of the impromptu twirl, laughing. She loved when they were like this, relaxed and ridiculous and homey.  “I was planning on talking to him anyway.”

                  “Atta girl,” Gabe grinned and Claire couldn’t help but grin back.

                  Claire shot a look at Castiel over her shoulder, “Hey, do you need my help with the store today?”

                  Castiel shook his head, “I hardly think I’m going to be overrun by the unwashed masses.  Or even the washed ones. Methinks the masses in general are quite well-behaved today.” 

                  “Ok, then I’m going to go spy on the new neighbor.”

                  “Bring me back a potted plant.  I won’t accept t-shirts as souvenirs,” Castiel’s blue eyes twinkled with mischief.

                  “I’ll see what I can do,” Claire laughed. 

…

                  To say Sam was surprised when he opened the door and saw a preteen girl on the front step would be an understatement.  “Can I help you…?” he asked uncertainly, not sure where this unexpected child had come from. 

                  “I’m Claire, I live next door,” she smiled charmingly. Sam resisted the urge to be charmed.

                  “Okay…” Apparently his face betrayed the way his mind automatically wandered back to that morning and the strange men who had greeted him.

                  “I promise I’m relatively normal,” she assured him.

                  “Uh, no, I’m not concerned about that, I mean, I’m not judging, I mean -.”

                  Unexpectedly, Claire laughed, “Good, I was worried you were some sort of nutjob.”

                  “Ok, you lost me there.”

                  She shrugged, “Well, you took the welcoming committee really well. Like, you might secretly be a little crazy, well.  You’re either nuts or really open-minded.  I’m thinking open-minded cuz of how awkward you are right now.”

                  Sam surprised himself by smiling, “So you don’t think I’m nuts, do you?” he asked with arch playfulness.

                  “Hmm, maybe a little bit PB and J, but not full-on Nutter Butter yet.”

                  “I’m sorry, what?” 

                  Claire grinned, “How nuts you are.  You’ve got just enough crazy to be a PB and J sandwich, but not enough for a Nutter Butter cookie.”

                  Sam said the first thing that came to mind, “I’m not sure if I’m offended or not.” 

                  Claire had, with the single-mindedness of children, skipped ahead to a new subject.  “Do you need help unpacking?”

                  “Sure?” Sam was momentarily perplexed.  How many random middle school neighbor kids volunteered to help unpack your crap for you?

                  “Ok, I’ll warn you though, I charge five bucks an hour.”

                  _Ok, make that a random capitalist middle school neighbor kid._

_…_

                  “He seems nice,” Claire declared a few hours later, sitting in ‘Trick or Treat’, scarfing down a BLT with Castiel delicately picking apart a peanut butter and banana sandwich on her left and Gabriel cleaning up from the lunch rush behind the counter in front of her. 

                  “Nice? Really?” Uncle Gabe sounded disappointed. 

                  Claire nodded, rubbing it in a little, “Yep, nice.  He’s a doctor, going into private practice in that middle storefront.  His brother’s driving down in a few days to help him unpack all the equipment.”

                  _“Nice?!”_ Gabriel still sounded affronted at the very thought. 

                  “Yes, Gabriel, _nice_.” Apparently Castiel had decided to join Claire in a little friendly Gabe-ribbing.

                  “But the nice ones are so _boring!”_ Gabe whined, throwing his torso onto the countertop in explosive mock despair. Claire shifted her sandwich out of the line of fire.  Castiel began to delicately drop slices of peanut-buttery banana in his cousin’s hair.

                  “Excuse me?” an unfamiliar voice interrupted the family-bonding (or whatever the hell was going on, Claire was still a bit unclear as to what was really happening at that point).  Three sets of Novak eyes rotated around to stare at the unusually tall man standing awkwardly in front of the counter. 

                  “Everyone, Doctor Sam Winchester.  Doctor Sam Winchester, everyone,” Claire introduced. 

                  “Helloo nurse!” with an zippy cartoon reference, Gabe was popping upright and bouncing towards the other end of the counter, the end currently occupied by their new neighbor.

                  “ _Doctor_ , Uncle Gabe, he’s a doctor,” Claire reminded him. 

                  “A good reference is a good reference,” Gabe sniffed, “Jim, teach your kid about quality tv,” he shot at Castiel.

                  Castiel did not bother to respond to the comment and instead contented himself by watching the slices of banana he had carefully placed in his cousin’s hair and making quiet bets with Claire on how long certain pieces would stay lodged in Gabriel’s golden-brown locks.  

                  “So, welcome to Trick or Treat bakery!” Gabriel grinned mischievously, “Would you like a trick or a treat today, sir?” 

                  “I’d actually prefer a salad.”

                  “The chartreuse ones always do,” Castiel muttered. 

                  Dr. Sam Winchester blinked and refocused, furrowing his brow as he stared at Gabriel, “Wait, you’re the guys from the window earlier.”

                  “Welcome to the neighborhood!  I’m Loki, god of mischief!” Gabe declared.

                  “ _Gabe,_ ” Castiel warned in his ‘parent-voice’, “What are we _not_ at work?”

                  Gabriel pouted, “A-pagan-god” he muttered all at once. 

                  “Very good,” Castiel said serenely. 

                  “I’d still like a salad,” Sam tried to redirect the conversation.

                  Castiel shook his head, muttering about the chartreuse-ness of it all.

                  Sam realized, with the kind of resignation that only washes over you every now and then, mostly in dire situations in which there is no escape, that he would not be getting a salad for a good long time and perhaps he had gotten in a bit too deep with these people.  Apparently they were all a tiny bit deranged. 


	3. Dean

**Chapter 2: Dean Winchester**

                  The bell above the shop door dinged.  Castiel glowered at it like it had personally affronted him by existing. The bell ignored his displeasure (it always did, the little blighter) and kept on ringing, echoes fading on and on to infinity, taunting Castiel with the sure knowledge that that damn pendulum would continue to oscillate forever and ever on an atomic level and that he would never be able to stop it without literally freezing the universe. Seeing as freezing the universe required a ridiculous amount of effort and would most likely result in mass destruction, Castiel was left with the irritating, oscillating bell and an overabundance of knowledge when it came to physics. 

                  Despite the bell and its many distracting qualities, the person entering the shop who had triggered the mental chain reaction that was Castiel’s typical response to That Damn Bell was a stranger and therefore not someone Castiel was particularly worried about making a good impression upon. He was far too busy devouring the last few chapters of the paperback he may or may not have snagged from the merchandise that morning. 

                  Time trickled past.  Five minutes, ten, then fifteen.  Claire returned from helping Dr. Sam Winchester unpack (Castiel did not believe in calling people he did not know by anything less than their complete first names. It was off-putting enough that it typically guaranteed Castiel only ever knew people who, at the very least, were interesting). He could distantly hear the clatter and thud of her sorting through the boxes of un-shelved books in the back room. He vaguely hoped she didn’t disrupt his filing system too much.

                  Foggily his ears picked up on the sound of her shouting to the lone customer (the bell-triggering stranger from before), “Have you found a copy yet?”

                  The man’s response was short and to the point, “Nope, Sammy’s gonna be pissed if we can’t replace that book.” 

                  “Well, the Beehive’s got a ton of really old first editions, I’m sure we’ll find something.”

                  A wordless grunt of acknowledgement from the stranger and they went back to silently searching.  Castiel didn’t mind silent searching.  It was pleasant white noise, soothing against his fried nerves and jangling, chaotic thoughts. Talking, now talking was just distracting.  Especially as the epic battle in chapter forty-two drew to a close and he still didn’t know if the hero would survive. 

                  Time resumed its slow, steady rhythm as it rolled past. More thumping and thudding as the two searchers combed through the store, on the hunt for some sort of obscure text.  Castiel honestly couldn’t care. Claire would come to him if she really needed help. He immersed himself in the book in his hands so thoroughly that when the stranger gave a shout of victory, holding a thick text aloft, Castiel didn’t so much as shift position.

                  In summary, Castiel Novak was completely unprepared for the stranger who slapped said thick book down on the counter the bookstore owner was currently sitting behind (Apparently Castiel looked like he _worked_ in the shop, a grave mistake he would be sure to correct later). “I’d like to buy this book,” the stranger declared, voice still warm and flushed with the victory of _finally_ finding whatever book he and Claire had been searching for.   

                  Castiel was in the midst of the final seconds of the final pages of the final book in a series.  He honestly didn’t care what this man wanted to buy.  “Please wait,” he told him robotically.

                  A minute slid past, three pages gliding with it. 

                  The stranger was getting restless, Castiel could sense the energy of it twitching along the edges of his perception.  “I’d like to buy this book,” the stranger said, this time voice sharper, harder and more forceful. 

                  Castiel was getting irritated.  It was raining, his scars were aching, it was a slow day, he hadn’t wanted to open the store at all, and here this guy was, ruining his book.  “People have been waiting for things for hundreds of years. I’m sure your genetics allow you to survive a few more minutes.” 

                  “Listen, you-.”

                  Castiel hissed out an annoyed breath between his teeth, “I am pages away from finding out if the hero lives or dies and you are spoiling it. Kindly shut up now.”

                  Claire stuck her head out of the back room, “I can ring you up,” she offered.

                  The stranger, relaxing now that the problem did not look likely to devolve into fisticuffs, said “Thank you.” 

                  The inclusion of yet another person to this dialogue was too much for Castiel. He set the book down with a resigned sigh, “And now you’re all spoiling it. Fine, fine! Buy your damned book.” He grabbed the stranger’s purchase and began scanning it, right hand shaking slightly and fumbling the heavy tome.  He tried to cover it up, and thought he might have hidden it from the green eyed stranger staring down at him, but he could never hide anything from Claire.

                  He didn’t meet her eyes, but he knew the look on her face. It was just like the look on Jimmy’s face when he saw his twin bruised and bloody from another round of pointless bullying from their older brothers and a large chunk of the older cousins. Castiel had always hated pity.

                  “I can do-“ Claire began, watching him give up on using his right hand completely. 

                  “No, no, the book’s ending’s ruined now,” Castiel turned the conversation flippant.  It was true, an interrupted ending was a ruined ending.  He wouldn’t be able to read it now.  Scooping up the paperback he had been poring over, he tossed it to Claire. “Tell me how it ends.”

                  Claire sighed irritably, just barely catching the flying book. Without even opening it, she answered “The village is saved, the hero gets the girl and they all live happily ever after.”

                  Castiel snorted, “The girl died four chapters ago, try again.”

                  Claire rolled her eyes, “Everyone dies.”

                  Castiel shot her a look of reproof.  “Claire, open the book.” 

                  Claire flipped to the last page and actually skimmed it silently while Castiel finished the sale.  Finally she looked up and told him, “The hero ends up living a quiet, obscure, but ultimately happy life.  The end.”

                  “Happy endings, typical,” Castiel grumped mildly, weighing the heavy book he had just sold in his left hand, contemplating the nature of happy endings, and nieces that had dead brothers’ eyes and right hands that were too nerve-damaged to function properly consistently.  And scars.  Maybe he was just in a morbid mood today. 

                  A throat was cleared.  Castiel blinked, realizing he had been mindlessly staring without really seeing. His wandering eyes landed on the stranger standing in front of him.  The first thing he thought was _amber._ Amber, tinted with traces of grass green and dark patches of smoky green.  This was an amber person.  An amber person with green eyes and a leather jacket and an attitude that screamed ‘I am seconds away from crushing you like a tin can because you’ve managed to be really, really, really irritating throughout this whole book-shopping experience’.  It was kind of sweet, like a growling puppy.  Because Cas knew, that despite the fact that this man was acting very puce right now he was not puce _person._ That was nice.  It was always comforting to meet people who were not puce by nature. There was no helping puce people.   

                  “I’d like my book back now,” the stranger growled.  Castiel got the distinct feeling that this was probably not the first time these words were uttered in the past few minutes.

                  Not feeling particularly helpful, Castiel narrowed his eyes at him, “Stop being puce and I might consider it.” 

                  “What the f-,” the stranger bit off the syllables before they could mature into a word most certainly not appropriate for Claire’s youthful ears. He ground his teeth; actually _ground his teeth,_ a habit Castiel had been convinced was something relegated to flowery turns of phrase and not real people.  “What are you talking about?” the stranger finally settled on saying. 

                  Castiel sighed, “You’re still doing it.”

                  “What?!”

                  A mournful headshake.  “Being puce. It’s on the verge of becoming an irreversible condition with you, isn’t it?  Sad, really.  Amber people are so rare; it’s unfortunate that you’re squandering it on puce-ness.” Perhaps Castiel, if he were in the mood for being honest with himself (he wasn’t), would have admitted that he was just messing with the other man.  But, as previously stated, Castiel really wasn’t in the mood for self-assessment and personal honesty.  No, he was feeling particularly mercurial today and this stranger had chosen to irritate him.

                  “Listen, buddy, I am _this close_ to strangling you-.”

                  Of course this is when Gabriel chose to saunter in.  Because that was just how Castiel’s day seemed to be going.

                  “Oh! Strangling!  Sounds kinky!” Gabe chirped, munching on a Twizzler.

                  “Uncle Gabe!” Claire squeaked, sounding more than a little grossed-out.

                  “What?” Gabriel shrugged, “I just went with where the conversation was clearly taking me.” 

                  “Stop trying to corrupt Claire,” Castiel turned away from the stranger, eyeing Gabe irritably, “She’s a nice girl.” 

                  “I’m not _corrupting_ her,” Gabriel hedged.

                  This was around the time that the stranger made a grab for the book he had purchased.  Castiel easily kept it out of his reach, swatting the fingers away with his right hand. He gave the other man a chastising look out of the corner of his eye, “That was just childish. I expect more from you.”

                  Green eyes glared back into blue.  Castiel snorted softly and turned back to Gabriel, still holding the book aloft, out of the reach of irate customers.  Hm, perhaps that was a bad choice in hindsight.  It was heavy and he could feel it pulling at the tight swaths of burn scarring across his back and shoulders.  He _knew_ Claire was looking at him with concern in her eyes.  He could _feel_ it. 

                  “Are you done being puce?” he asked the customer, “This book is heavy.”

                  The customer looked torn between homicidal rage and helpless laughter. The combination of emotional forces was staining his face, ironically enough, puce.  Castiel might have laughed if this were a different day and he was feeling less cantankerous. 

                  “Ooh, a puce one,” Gabe finished his lollipop and twirled the stick across his knuckles, “A shame, that.  The puce ones are the worst.”

                  Castiel gave his cousin a narrowed-eyed stare, not sure if Gabe was mocking him or not. 

                  “This is ridiculous,” moaned Claire with the eloquence of every exasperated tween. 

                  “Perfect!” Gabe chirped, “It’s a slow day at the bakery, I was hoping you folks had a nice batch of ridiculous waiting for me.” 

                  “Shouldn’t you be _working_?” Castiel asked, eyes narrowed. 

                  “Pssh, that’s what the hired help’s for.”

                  “The last time Kevin tried to operate the ovens, he set the instruction manual on fire,” Castiel mused.

                  Gabriel visibly paled, “I’d forgotten about that.”

                  “Go make sure your teenage lackey hasn’t caused any property damage,” Castiel instructed. 

                  “But I had a _reason_ for slogging through all that rain!” Gabriel protested, “And it wasn’t just to watch you play keep-away with a handsome stranger.

                  “I think I just vomited in my mouth a little,” Claire moaned.

                  Castiel, who had, throughout the last few minutes of conversation, been shifting the book around, ducking and swerving to avoid letting the customer grab his purchase.  He stopped, glared at the stranger as if it were his fault for forcing him to act so childish and set the purchased book down on the countertop, hands folded neatly atop the tooled leather cover. 

                  “Aaanywaaaay,” Gabriel dragged the word out as long as possible, pointing his lollipop stick at the stranger as he addressed him; “Your Sasquatch brother’s looking for you and the munchkin.  Apparently he sent you on a short errand to replace a book that got trashed in the move and you’ve been gone for over an hour.”

                  “Yeah, well there were…unavoidable inconveniences,” he grouched, glowering at Castiel. 

                  Gabe snorted, “That line doesn’t work on me, buddy, everyone local knows not to try and check out when Jim’s finishing a _Chronicles of Moondor_ book.  You just have poor planning skills.” 

                  For some reason the mention of Castiel’s guilty-pleasure reading choice made the stranger perk up a bit, “ _Moondor,_ really?”

                  “Uh, yeah, my cousin’s a total geek.”

                  “Gabriel,” Castiel’s tone should have been enough to warn his cousin off of this topic. 

                  “What could you possibly do to me, baby cousin?” Gabe teased.

                  “Call your mother,” Castiel said serenely.

                  Gabriel visibly paled for the second time in that conversation. “I surrender,” he squeaked out, “I’d better run, actually, and you know, make sure Kevin hasn’t set anything on fire yet…yeah…I’m out!  Peace! Make love and not phone calls, Jim!”

                  Castiel permitted the tiniest smug smile. 

                  “So, why are you so interested in _Moondor_?” Claire asked the stranger politely, sidling up to Castiel and freeing the purchased book from his hands and passing it off to the customer. Castiel permitted it. The other man was acting less puce now.

                  “I, uh, well, kinda know the author,” the man said uneasily.

                  “Sweet!” Claire chirped, “I love those books too!  Can you get something signed for me?!  I’d pay for it and everything!” 

                  “Sure, why not?” he sounded awkward now.  A bit lime-green in attitude.  Much preferable to the puce.  Castiel marginally approved. 

                  “Awesome!” Claire crowed, elbowing Castiel, “Hey you, I know what I want for my birthday now!” 

                  “Of course you do,” Castiel grumbled fondly. 

                  The stranger chuckled, “Well, I’d better get back to helping Sammy get unpacked.  The little nerd’s probably gotten distracted again.  Are you coming, Claire?”

                  “Sure!” Claire was still grinning at the prospect of _signed_ books, she bounced to her feet, “Can I go help Dr. Winchester?” she asked Castiel.

                  “Try not to get eaten by a rabid dust-bunny, I hear they’re running wild this time of year,” Castiel warned lightly.

                  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Claire grinned, “Oh, by the way, this is Dean Winchester.  Dean Winchester, this is my…dad.  Dad, meet Dean Winchester.”

                  Even now it was hard for Castiel not to look around for Jimmy when Claire said ‘dad’.  But he resisted the urge to seek out his absent twin and instead accepted the hand offered for shaking. “Hello, Dean Winchester. It’s good to see you being less puce.”

                  “Uh, yeah, hi…?”

                  “James,” Castiel’s stomach twisted with time-dulled self-loathing at the sound of his stolen name, “James Novak.” 

                  “Nice to meet you, Jimmy.”

                  “Jim, Jamie or James.  My name is not Jimmy,” Castiel informed him, mind continuing the thought: _‘Jimmy is my dead twin brother.  Not me.’_

“Oh, okay, dude, whatever floats your boat.”  Castiel could almost see the unspoken thought trailing after that comment: _and your boat is pretty freaking weird, man._ But that was ok, Castiel didn’t mind that other people found him strange or off-putting.  That was fine.  He almost enjoyed it.  Almost.

                  “Goodbye, Dean Winchester,” he dismissed the amber man and his green eyes. He was tired of having people watch him and judge him right now.  At this moment all Castiel really wanted was some peace.  And this man seemed like the sort that turned things on their heads just to see how they’d look that way. 

                  “Uh, bye Jim.  See ya around.”

                  And with one more irritating, oscillating, jangle of the door’s bell, out walked Dean Winchester, followed by Claire.  And Castiel was left alone in the quiet bookshop.  Damn.  He was missing the noise already.  Castiel folded his arms and dropped his chin on them.  Clearly this was shaping up to be a restless sort of day.  He drummed his fingers on the countertop. Tap, tap, tap-tap-rap-a-tap-tap. Ugh.  The silence was stifling.  He needed to get out.  Where to go?

                  Dr. Sam Winchester needed help moving in.  Dean and Claire were helping him.  Gabriel must be involved somehow; he was running messages for the man, after all.  It would seem the whole building was in on Operation Sam Winchester.  Fine, being non-conformist was starting to feel stifling anyway. Castiel shoved himself away from the countertop with a huff of irritation at how contradictory his thoughts were being today and grabbed his trenchcoat.  He might as well help with this whole moving in thing. There weren’t any customers today anyway.

…

                  “Sounds like the guy who called me chartreuse the day I showed up,” said Sam, “He’s _interesting.”_

                  “And kinda weird,” Dean pointed out.

                  “Yeah, that too.” 

                  There came a knock on the door.  The brothers traded a surprised glance, Dean hopping up to get it.

                  “I heard that helping your brother move in was what all the social outcasts were doing these days.  So I decided that being a cool kid was too much work.”  The dark-haired bookstore owner brushed past Dean and into the half-put-together living room. 

                  “So you’re here to help?” Sam asked. 

                  “It all depends on perspective,” the man gave a strange lopsided smile.

                  Dean sighed.  This town had gotten really weird while they were gone.


	4. Staying Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would recommend listening to the band ‘Of Monsters and Men’s first album while reading this. I had it on while I wrote this chapter and it so perfectly captured the mood that I just had to write this note recommending it. Seriously, look up this band, they are amazing.

**Chapter 3: Staying Gold**

                  A week later Dean was scheduled to leave Orcastle.

                  Castiel awoke at two o’clock that morning, a feeling of nameless dread pooling in his stomach.  He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, driving away the memories clawing at his restless mind. Phantom flames and ghostly smoke tugged at his senses, trying to stain the insides of his eyelids red and black.

                  Sam awoke at three o’clock that morning, eyelids clicking open uncertainly, as if the sudden need for wakefulness has surprised not only Sam, but his body as well.  A sense of foreboding tugged at his limbs and threatened to drag his body down.  He closed his eyes and rolled over, dragging a pillow over his eyes, praying for sleep to return and dispel this odd, nagging feeling that something was coming.  Something bad.

                  Claire awoke at four o’clock that morning, hot and itchy, frustrated and sleepless.  She jumped out of bed, pacing her room for five minutes, debating the likelihood of Castiel already being awake.  Even more irritated, she tossed herself back onto her bed, smacking her face into her pillow as if the mere force of her landing would be enough to punch sleep back into her body.

                  Gabe did not wake up at an odd time that night.  But he did crawl out of bed at the exact moment his alarm clock rang, for once indefinably grateful for the intrusive thing disturbing his sleep. 

                  Dean awoke at five o’clock that morning, filled with a vague sort of energy, a need to get moving and do _something._ Grabbing a mug of coffee and stuffing a piece of dry toast in his mouth, Dean crept through the apartment, trying not to wake up Sammy.  He scanned the living room, hoping for a book to hold his interest for a few hours until his brother got up.  He picked up a paperback, thumbed through it, tossed it aside.  A few magazines followed suit.  Nothing fit.  Everything felt ever so slightly out of place and somehow wrong. 

                  _Wait, there’s bookstore downstairs…_ Dean’s mind leapt, unbidden to ‘Beehive Books’ downstairs and all the thousands of titles cluttering its shelves.  The top floor apartments were all connected by one long hallway. The staircase’s landing connected to all of the shops.  It wasn’t stealing if Dean didn’t take any of the books _outside_ of the bookstore, right?  He could just sit in there and read for a bit.  That way he wouldn’t wake up Sammy.  It was the perfect plan. 

                  And this is a prime example of why plans should not be made by sleep-deprived men at ungodly hours of the morning. 

                  Dean slunk down the stairs, easing the bookshop’s back door open and slipping through.  Success! Alright, now all he had to do was find the right section… Using the light attached to his iphone, Dean crept through the stacks, checking genre headings and trying not to trip over the crates of books left lying around haphazardly.  He was starting to think that they were some sort of Do-It-Yourself alarm system when…

                  “You’re not very good at breaking and entering.”  The low, raspy voice cracked through the silence which had hung, heavy and gray, all around Dean up until that moment.  Startled, he jumped, tangling his feet in the box directly in front of him and went down with a clatter. 

                  “I retract my assessment.  You are terrible at breaking and entering.” 

                  “What the-.” Dean began.

                  “Although I suppose there wasn’t really any actual ‘breaking’ involved, was there?” the voice mused, “Unless you’ve broken yourself falling all over my books. Have you?  That would be very byzantium of you.  And you’re just the sort to go around doing byzantium things just for the fun of it.”

                  “Dude,” Dean groaned, dragging himself back upright, using a bookshelf for support, “What the _hell_ is a _Byzantium_?”

                  “It’s a color, deep purple to you.  Don’t be a troglodyte.” 

                  “What-“

                  “You are a troglodyte.  If you have to ask for a definition, no other definition is necessary.”

                  “Are you always this bitchy at five am?”  Dean grumped at the as-yet-unseen other person. 

                  “No.”

                  “Prove it.”

                  There was a pause.  Dean could hear the rustle of a page turning. 

                  “No.”

                  “Well how _Byzantium_ of you,” Dean half-snarled, realizing his foot was stuck in the book crate and trying desperately to free it.  After almost a minute of rattling the damn thing around, Dean finally gave up, slamming his foot into the ground in the vague hope of dislodging the crate in the process. No such luck. 

                  “Stop that,” huffed the voice, Dean was fairly sure it was James (not Jimmy, apparently that particular nickname was taboo.  Honestly, this guy was nuts).  Dean could hear the sound of a book being set on a countertop or table and the scrap-thud of a chair being pushed away. This was followed up by the steady creak-thump of feet across the floorboards and the sudden appearance of a shadowy figure bearing an eye-searingly bright flashlight right in front of Dean.

                  “Holy-?! What the hell, man? Are you trying to blind me?” Dean demanded gruffly. 

                  “Stop being powder blue,” James chastised him, “I’m here to help you. Hold still.” 

                  In less than five seconds Dean’s foot was freed and James was striding off, calling, “Follow if you want coffee,” over his shoulder.

                  Dean wanted coffee.  He followed the strange man. 

                  Five minutes later they sat on the floor behind the counter, clutching cups of coffee generously provided by the worn coffee maker in the back room, surrounded by what looked to be a small fortress of books.

                  “Quite a place you’ve got here,” Dean said, glancing around at the carefully arranged walls of books, eyeing the just-chipped-enough coffee mugs. He was only half joking.

                  “Shh,” was the only thing the other man said.  He appeared to be _communing_ for lack of a better term, with his coffee.  He had both hands wrapped around the mug, although one was looser than the other and seemed less aware of itself; the cup drawn up close to his lips but not quite touching.  He breathed in once, seeming to soak in not just the scent of the caffeinated beverage, but its very essence, that essential thing that made it _coffee_ and not anything else.  In that moment Dean was suddenly and inexplicably jealous of the strange bookseller who lived in colors and seemed to experience everything just a little _more_ than everyone and everything else. 

                  A minute trickled past.  A quiet, frozen minute.  Then James twitched and Dean felt like he was allowed to move again.  Taking a deep swig of his coffee, relishing the nasty, grungy burn of it as it scorched its way down his throat, he asked, “So what has you awake at five am?” 

                  Blue eyes blinked slowly, tiny pin-pricks of white-hot light reflected from the flashlight sitting between them shone from his pupils. “Some things don’t allow themselves to be forgotten lightly,” he said cryptically, drinking deeply from his own mug.

                  And for some reason, Dean knew exactly what he was talking about. “Yeah,” he murmured in quiet agreement.

                  They didn’t talk again after that.  Just sat in silence and drank their coffee, and when that ran out, read some of the books piled up around them.  Dean wasn’t quite sure when Claire wandered down and joined them, but she did at some point because he looked up around five-thirty and saw her snuggled up against her father’s side, reading over his shoulder as he rubbed gentle circles across her shoulder blades.  The next time Dean glanced up Sam was sitting on the floor leaning against the counter, face buried in ‘The Cry of the Icemark’.  Dean kicked him gently, and Sam kicked back just as lightly. Six o’clock and then seven crept bashfully around, as if time itself was a bit embarrassed to be passing through such a quiet, perfect moment.  Somewhere between six and seven Gabriel sauntered in bearing cinnamon rolls and more coffee and for some reason even this didn’t break the peace and quiet. Instead seven o’clock found Gabriel squashed into their little huddle between Claire and Sam, nose stuck in a battered copy of ‘Good Omens’. 

                  “I’ve got to go,” Dean broke the silence as the minute hand slid closer to eight than seven.  He felt guilty for breaking the silence, the way he had felt guilty when he broke one of his mother’s favorite plates at age seven.  Like he had shattered a precious thing and couldn’t quite bring himself to face the fact that it would never be the same again. 

                  Sam looked startled by the sudden sound, blinking floppy hair and pages of distraction out of his eyes as he peered owlishly up at Dean. “Do you really?” And, medical doctorate or not, Dean could still hear the ghost the toddler Sam had been the first day six-year-old Dean had left for kindergarten. 

                  “Yeah, Sammy, I’ve gotta be back in New York by Monday morning. I only got a week of leave,” Dean told him gruffly, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder as he stood.

                  “ _Boring!_ ” Gabriel sang out from behind his paperback. 

                  “Yeah, well, we can’t all be man-children that subsist off of Skittles and dreams,” Dean teased, kicking Gabriel’s foot. 

                  The shorter man looked up indignantly, “I’ll have you know that I’ve improved. I’ve made room for some dietary _variety_ thank you very much!”

                  “He eats Mom’s apple pie now,” Sam clarified.  “You remember the pies she baked for my house-warming?”

                  “ _Pies?”_ Dean squawked, “There were more than one?!”

                  “ _Were_ being the operative word in that sentence.”

                  “Hey, the pie goddess gave you _two pies!_ I deserved one, I call it ‘pie tax’!” 

                  “The _‘pie goddess’_ is my mom!” Sam protested, “That’s it, you’re not invited to parties at my place anymore.”

                  Dean snorted; Sam was kidding.  Despite the fact that they were kind of weird, Gabriel, Claire and even James were quickly becoming Sam’s friends.  It was obvious from his relaxed voice and posture that there people would be occupying Sam’s life for a good long time.  Dean was glad, even though it made him the tiniest bit jealous. He wanted to know that his baby brother had friends to take care of him when Dean wasn’t around to look out for him.

                  “Bye guys, Sammy, come help me haul my stuff out to the Impala,” Dean redirected the conversation. 

                  “Toodles, Deano!” chirped Gabriel, just to hear Dean grumble about the annoying nickname. 

                  “Bye, Dean, see you soon,” Claire grinned and bounced to her feet to give Dean a hug. 

                  There was a moment of silence as everyone waited for James to say some sort of parting phrase.  Dean wondered what he would say.  Finally, as the silence stretched on, teetering on the edge of awkward, the dark-haired bookseller said, not even bothering to glance up from the Robert Frost poetry collection balanced on his knees, “Stay gold, Dean Winchester.”

                  Claire snorted and smacked her father with the copy of ‘The Outsiders’ in her hand.  Dean assumed she got whatever literary reference which had just soared over his head.   “Right back at you, James,” he shot back at the man sitting on the floor.  James peered at him over the edge of the book and raised both eyebrows slowly, expression unreadable before going back to reading.

…

                  Dean left with a minimum of fanfare after that.  He drove off in his big black car and left all of them a bit confused and disoriented in his wake.  Gabe meandered back to his bakery as Claire and Castiel wandered around the bookstore, picking up what didn’t really need picking up and cleaning off that which didn’t really require cleaning off.  Sam sat and watched them, listening to the sounds of the contractors working on what would soon be his clinic next door.

                  “That was Robert Frost, wasn’t it?” Sam said unexpectedly in the middle of yet another stretch of mid-morning silence. 

                  Castiel smiled, un-surprised that Sam would get the reference. “Yes, with a bit of S. E. Hinton overtones.”

                  “Stay gold, Ponyboy,” quoted Claire from the other side of the shop.

                  “A bit dark for a goodbye,” Sam hedged. 

                  Castiel sighed, he had never had much patience for beating around the bush. That was something he had loved about being a twin.  With Jimmy there had never been any hedging or half-truths or almost-statements. It was all very straightforward and beautifully blunt.  Amelia was the one who could never get to the point.  It drove Castiel crazy.  He sometimes wondered if it was a relief to Jimmy, her tact, all those extra words polluting the air. He sometimes wondered if Jimmy had ever resented Castiel’s inability to sugar-coat anything. If sometimes in their adult life Jimmy fled home, back to his wife, just to get away from Castiel and his ‘eyes that saw everything and freaking _judged_ it all’. That had been a bad night, the night that Jimmy had said that.  He had apologized the next day and probably forgotten it.  But Castiel remembered.  And it rubbed at his nerves today, a break that never quite healed and would never quite heal. 

                  Castiel shook off memories and looked Sam in the eye, “Remember what a goodbye is before you judge mine.  They have always been rather…indigo things.” 

                  “Yeah,” muttered Sam, staring off into the distance. 

                  “Am I the only one who woke up dreading something this morning?” blurted out Claire.  She flushed and slapped a hand over her mouth, looking intensely awkward. 

                  “Yeah,” repeated Sam, “Something going to happen.  I don’t like it.” 

                  Castiel nodded, shifting uneasily. 

                  They didn’t see Dean Winchester for another two and a half months. The next time Castiel and Claire saw the man he sighed heavily and dropped into a seat at their kitchen table and rested his chin on his fists, “Staying gold is harder than it looks,” he said, staring down at the grain of the wood on the table. 

                  But that isn’t important just yet.  They still have two and a half months left to go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I hadn't mentioned this before, I'll throw it out here now, Orcastle, Oregon is not a real town. It is loosely modeled off of Bend, Oregon, but it is by no means an exact replica. (so basically don't try to Google map Orcastle, it will seriously confuse your computer...) :)


	5. Michael

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not know much about how SWAT operations work. Please go easy on my poor ignorant self if I make any mistakes in representing Dean’s work...

**Chapter 4: Michael Winchester**

                  For Dean Winchester time slid past, pace strange and loping, marked not by the passage of days and weeks but by texts from Sam and calls from his mother and deadlines tossed at him by his sergeant.  Almost every day found Dean sitting in his cubicle, typing report after report, pounding tales of crime and blood and violence into dispassionate keys and clinical terms.  These swaths of reports and warrants were punctuated with bursts of movement, late-night calls, tense minutes of adrenaline and bulletproof vests and checking ammo for the goddamn millionth time because his uncle Sergeant Michael Winchester was such an OCD hardass about preparedness.   And then there was the bursting through doors and the pointing of guns and the shouting and the pound of officious boots against concrete as they surrounded the suspect.  And then it was all over and the adrenaline drained away and there was really nothing much left.

                  If Dean had bothered to consider it, he might have come to the realization that he was living a rather charcoal-grey-colored life here in New York. But he didn’t consider it, because he was not the sort to ponder the infinite color wheel of the human soul and he didn’t have any reason to ask James (a man he barely knew, after all, who lived in a town a few hundred miles away) about it.  But if Dean _had_ thought about it, he would have considered his life to be lurking about on the dark end of the grayscale. 

                  And so another month and a half spun its way into infinity, never to return. It was early September when everything tipped on its axis, not to begin rotating again for a good long time. The day started innocuous enough. There was nothing to suggest that this was a critical turning point for anyone in their lives. But as Castiel (or James, considering that Dean honestly believed him to _be_ James) would have pointed out, had he been given the opportunity, was that beginnings could be pink and raw and delicate and that there was just too much that could hurt them. 

…

                  Hundreds of miles away, in Orcastle, Claire Novak jumped out of bed, ready for the first day of eighth grade.  She dashed out the door, sneakered feet pumping beneath her as she raced off, snatching the backpack Castiel held out to her.  He leaned against the doorframe, watching her.  Feeling his blue eyes on her back, she stopped and turned to look at him. 

                  “You will have a good day today, princess,” he told her, the blue of his eyes soft and muted and gentle, “It’s a lavender day, after all. Lavender days are the best sort for beginnings.” 

                  Heart suddenly filled with an unexpected warmth, Claire darted back to the doorway, throwing her arms around a surprised Castiel.  She buried her face in his shirt and breathed in the smell of home. Oil paint and old books and coffee so black drinking it was probably a health hazard wafted up to tickle her nose.

                  “Bye, Castiel,” she whispered, so quiet only his soul could hear the words. Backing off and releasing him, she turned to bolt down the stairs, yelling as she went, “Lavender for beginnings!”

…

                  In New York City Dean Winchester awoke to the sound of porcelain hitting formica and the sting of coffee droplets splashing his cheek. Peeling his face off his desk, he looked up to see a younger version of his father glowering down at him. Wait, no, John Winchester was dead. Had been for years. This was Michael. Uncle Mikey.  The bastard who had gotten him this stupid job in the first place. And he had brought coffee after Dean pulled an all-nighter at the office.  Damn, Dean loved this stupid-ass family. 

                  Sergeant Michael Winchester (who would deny, on pain of everlasting torment, any association with the name ‘Uncle Mikey’) kept on glaring, clearly not interested in any form of family bonding.  “Get yourself up and caffeinated, boy, we’re going to need you in a few hours.” 

                  “Love you too, Uncle Mikey.” 

                  “Silence, fool.” 

                  “Not scared of you.”

                  “Your loss, child.”

                  Dean chuckled and took a swig of his coffee.  Then spat it out.  Then tentatively tasted it again. Nope, still tasted like Hudson River in a mug.  Spitting it out one more time…

                  “Damn, Sarge, this stuff tastes like sewage on a sunny day!”

                  “My heart bleeds for you, son,” Michael said in his dry, supercilious voice.

                  Yep, Dean really loved his family.  Today was going to be a rough one.  Just like the one before, just like the one coming up in twenty-four-hours. Nothing began, nothing ended. It was kinda perfect in its own twisted way. 

…

                  “Have a good day!” Sam shouted to Claire as he propped the door to his clinic open. 

                  “I will!” she yelped, “It’s a lavender one, bound to be good!”

                  Sam chuckled, lavender days.  He should tell Dean.  His brother had taken a liking to the indecipherable color-code his neighbors lived by. Well, not so much a ‘liking’ as a steadfast denial of a liking.  A denial so strong it couldn’t be anything other than fondness.  Yes, Winchesters were twisted and some of them probably needed therapy. Sam acknowledged this.  Then again, he was the one who didn’t need therapy. 

…

                  “You know, they offer therapy to jackasses like you who need to work out their anger issues,” Dean drawled, leaning against his cubicle, critiquing his uncle after the older man had just shouted at some junior officers for what could have been, admittedly, a pretty significant screw-up if it wasn’t caught in time.  The junior guys had crawled away with their tails between their legs.  Michael was breathing hard; doing that weird thing he’d always done where he stood incredibly straight and stiff, movements controlled and tight, like the force of his fury was slowly freezing his body into the perfect pose.

                  “I have no need for _therapy,_ child,” Michael informed him, scanning the maps and markers and case notes pinned to the corkboard in front of him. 

                  “Okey-dokey, whatever you say,” Dean raised an eyebrow at his former mentor, surprised to see Michael still trying to catch his breath.  “Hey, Uncle Mike, are you ok?” he asked, newly concerned.

                  “I am perfectly fine,” Michael hissed, “I just need to find where they’re going to be. This case, it’s…ergh, I can see the patterns, they make a picture, but not a whole one.  There are GODDAMN PIECES MISSING! And I have to solve this case, Dean. Even if it kills me.”

                  Dean was getting more than a little concerned.  “Well, I’m going to pick up some Indian food, I’ll bring some back for you.” 

                  “I hate Indian food.”

                  “Alright, I’ll change it, what do you want?”

                  Michael, “I need feeding, boy, the end justifies the means. The end: I will be full. The means: detestable curry and naan.”

                  “You liked Indian food last week.” 

                  “Don’t question destiny,” was Michael’s only comeback.  Dean thought he might have caught the edge of a wry smile as the older man voiced those familiar words.   Indian food it was.  Thirty minutes later, Dean watched, not daring to so much as snicker as Michael ate all his naan and curry and half of Dean’s.  Ends justifying the means?  Destiny? Ha.  Dean would have laughed if he wasn’t so sure that Michael could make his life a living hell if he wanted to .

…

                  “It’s DESTINY!”

                  “Uncle Gabe, my destiny is not to take a bunch of your experimental new recipes to school and test them on my friends.” 

                  “It’s for SCIENCE, Claire!  _Science.”_

“No, we are not using my friends as your guinea pigs!” 

                  “But it’s a lavender day…” 

                  “No, experiments aren’t a new beginning.  They’re the ending of my tastebuds!” 

                  “You’re no fun,” Gabriel pouted.

                  “I know,” Claire grinned and snatched her lunch off of the counter. Knowing Gabe, he’d probably snuck one of his weird new recipes into it.   

                  Gabriel rolled his eyes, sighing in defeat.  Some things you just couldn’t change. 

…

                  Dean trailed after Michael as the older Winchester strode away from the interrogation room. 

                  “This changes everything,” his uncle muttered, almost too quiet for Dean to hear. 

                  “Yeah, it does.  But, Uncle Mike, are you sure -?”

                  “Dean, get a crew together, we’re going after these vermin.”

                  “But Uncle Mike, don’t you think we’re going too fast on this one…?”

                  “Dean. I gave an order.”

                  “Dude, I know you want to get these guys for what they did to -.”

                  “OFFICER WINCHESTER!”

                  “Yes, sir.” 

                  Michael stepped in close, slicing through Dean’s personal space like a perfectly honed blade.  “You will follow orders. And we will get these sick vermin. You will get a team together. Do you understand?”

                  Dean met his eyes for as long as he could, gritting out a handful of words, “Would Anna want this done this way?” 

                  For a few seconds Dean honestly though his uncle might hit him, right here in the station. But instead Michael turned and walked away without another word, stopping only once, halfway down the hall, to get another mug of god-awful-coffee.  Dean watched him go.  Watched him down the coffee-flavored sludge in one go.  Watched him chuck the Styrofoam cup in the trash, turn and keep walking.  Michael did not look back once. 

…

                  The bell above the bookshop dinged.  Castiel, not bothering to look up from his book, casually lifted a rubber band gun from the counter and shot the irritating chime.  It dislodged from its perch and dropped into the hands of one unsuspecting Dr. Winchester. 

                  “Good reflexes,” Castiel complimented.  He still hadn’t looked up from his book.  It was more interesting than the outside world right now, anyway.

                  Sam Wichester shuffled into his peripheral vision.  Castiel turned a page.  Sam cleared his throat.  Castiel highlighted a phrase he particularly liked.  Sam hummed tunelessly.  Castiel was tone-deaf and couldn’t care less. 

                  Sam coughed again, “I can see why Dean finds you so frustrating. This is really awkward. And kind of annoying.”

                  Castiel shot him a _look_ over the top of his book.  “Don’t you go being puce about it, too.” 

                  There was another moment of silence as Castiel tried to read and Sam focused all his energy on bitchfacing at him until the other man felt compelled to pay attention to him. 

                  “You win, although for the record, that was unpleasantly magenta of you.” Castiel set his book down on the counter, folding his hands atop the worn paper cover, automatically moving his left to cover his damaged right.  He knew that no one could see the scars on the damaged hand when he wore long sleeves, but the urge to protect the old wound ran strong and deep in his veins.

                  Sam looked like he was seconds away from commenting on the ‘magenta’ statement but was actively resisting the urge. 

                  “I see the world in color.  If you want further explanation you’ll have to actually gather the courage and/or rudeness to ask,” Castiel informed him. 

                  Sam shook his head, hair flopping everywhere, “No, I’m not here for rude questions or…whatever the hell that was.” He ran a hand down his face, staring off into the middle distance.  “Do you remember the day Dean left?  Do you remember the dread?” 

                  Castiel closed his eyes, remembering the echoes of fire and smoke that had pulled him from sleep at the wee hours of the morning, remembering the strange, surreal morning he and Dean and their respective families had spent on the floor of the store, just reading.  The faint taste of desperation that had clung to those early hours like a needy date rang in his mind.  They had all been _reaching_ , that morning. Trying to reassure themselves and each other.  Oh yes, he remembered the dread.  He hadn’t felt that sort of dread in a long time.  A very long time.

                  “Yes,” he told Sam.  “It came back this morning.” 

                  It was not a question, but Sam answered it as such anyway. “Yeah. I want to call my brother.”

                  “I want to pray,” Castiel admitted, “And I barely know the man.”

                  “My brother or God?” 

                  “Both.”

…

                  Dean stood in the locker room, watching Michael and trying to convince himself that his uncle’s plan was a good idea.  Storm the warehouse, take as many alive as possible, shoot if they shoot, get the kidnapped women out, try not to die.  Dean closed his eyes, hands coming up, unbidden, to his temples and trying to rub away the headache brewing there.  He turned away from the sight of Michael getting his gear and instead focused on the photos taped to the inside of his own locker.

                  All of his family, living and dead, beamed back at him. A snapshot from this last trip to Orcastle, Sam and Dean standing in front of what would soon become Dr. Winchester’s clinic.  Fuzzy and indistinct in the background were Sammy’s neighbors. Gabriel was in mid-air, trying to tackle James, who had stepped aside seconds before.  Claire was taking the photo, Dean could see distortions where a few of her blonde hairs had blown into the frame.  Another pic from the last trip showed Sam and him with their tiny blonde mom sandwiched between them, a huge smile painted across Mary’s face. A slightly older picture showed the Winchester family the day they moved Dean and Sam’s adoptive brother Adam out to college. John, alive and grinning, had an arm around Mary and an arm around the kid who had started out as just another one of the Wichesters’ foster kids and grew to become Sam and Dean’s baby brother.  Sam and Dean were laughing and goofing off on the side. Then there were the pics from Sam’s graduation day and Adam’s high school graduation, and an old photo of Dean and his college friends laughing together holding diplomas.  Finally Dean’s roaming eye caught on the one he was unconsciously searching for. 

                  It was the oldest of the lot.  Faded and slightly brown around the edges, it showed John and Mary Winchester’s wedding day. Two couples, bride and groom, maid of honor and best man, stood posed together, beaming.  John and Mary were practically glowing with happiness, but for once Dean wasn’t looking at them.  His eyes were glued to the other pair.  A woman in a pale blue dress, a torrent of firey red hair cascading down her back leaned into a dark-haired man, inches away from a kiss.

                  That was Anna. 

                  The dark-haired man was Dean’s Uncle Michael. 

                  This photo was taken exactly five years and eight months before Anna disappeared.

                  They didn’t find her body until another year had passed.

                  Six months ago her killers had appeared to resurface, dragging Michael and now Dean back into a case they should never have had to survive. And now, after one pivotal interview, Michael thought he knew where to go, where they would find the sick bastards who had killed his wife.  Dean felt sick, the dread he remembered from his last day in Orcastle building and rising and choking him in its sticky, sickly grip. 

                  He shot another look at Michael, only to find his sergeant standing beside him, also staring at the photo from John and Mary’s wedding. “Let’s go, Winchester,” he said, voice dark and different than Dean remembered it.  It was painful to hear and miserable to listen to.

                  Michael turned away and strode off.  Dean followed, gear in hand, closing his locker door behind him. It was time to right a wrong.

…

                  Back in Orcastle Claire gritted her teeth through her Algebra homework.

                  Castiel gave up on reading, or shelving books or anything else productive. Instead he sketched on spare scraps of printer paper, trying to read the end of this particularly twisted tale of a day in the wild lines of graphite. 

                  Gabe burned a tray of croissants for the first time in over a decade. He just muttered “Typical.” Because it was for this afternoon. He could sense the wind changing. Gabriel was a creature of change.

                  Sam did and re-did the same inane tasks he had been doing to prep the clinic for its business opening in a few weeks.  He resisted the urge to call Dean eight times.  He resisted the urge to call Michael five. He actively considered calling Adam twice.  In the end he called his mother because she seemed like the only one who wouldn’t laugh at him for the sense of foreboding that clung to him. 

…

                  The SWAT team waited, surrounding the building.  Dean could feel his breathing evening out, falling into the same old steady heartbeat-like rhythm.  Michael’s breath rasped too fast and too harsh beside him. Dean reached out for his mentor and uncle, bracing a steadying hand on the other man’s shoulder. Michael didn’t even notice.

…

                  Somewhere in Orcastle a pencil tapped.  A bird sang.  The bell now exiled to the floor of Castiel’s shop continued to oscillate infinitely on a wavelength too small for human perception. 

…

                  As soon as Michael gave the order to move in, Dean’s world exploded. There was gunfire everywhere, the sharp retort of weapons and the bark of shouted orders and screaming victims drowning out any signs that there was more to the world than this bullet-drenched instant.  Dean dropped low and ran, shooting when shot at, trying to catch sight of Michael, trying to spot his Sergeant.  

                  CRACK-CRACK-BOOM!

                  Howling noise and sudden heat took over Dean’s senses, hijacking his brain to feed him a sudden unwanted stream of data.  Either someone’s stray bullet hit something flammable in the warehouse or one of the thugs had torched something to try and take down the cops with them. Either way, the building was on fire now, hungry tongues of flame licking and lapping their way up the dry, brittle wood, eating away at it like a starving cat.

                  Dean snapped into action, moving with his comrades, a synchronized unit, grabbing the victims and hustling them out, watching each other’s backs and picking off any threats.  But Dean couldn’t see Michael. 

                  Where the hell was Michael? 

                  The victims were out, the team was withdrawing.  Someone was yanking on Dean’s arm, pulling him away from the snarling beast that the fire had become.  But Dean couldn’t see Michael.  Yanking away from the hands restraining him, Dean ran back in. 

                  Those minutes in that inferno taught Dean what Hell looked like.

                  Then suddenly, there he was, Michael.  A dead man lay at his feet.  Michael had his service pistol in hand, posture just as stiff and held and just a hair too close to perfect as ever as he stared down at the man he must have killed. “This was the one, Dean. He saw her last moments. He fucking _reveled_ in them.”  There was a pause and Dean was sure he could hear feet shifting and clattering on the floor nearby.  Damn, there must still be thugs about.  He had to get Michael and him away from here. 

                  “My work here is done, Dean.  I tried to arrest him, but he bolted.  I pursued.  He fired on me. I fired on him.” Michael’s shoulders sagged a bit and he ran a hand down his face, coughs racking his body as the smoke trickled into his lungs.  “I’m so tired, Dean, so tired.” 

                  “Lets go home man,” Dean grabbed his uncle’s elbow and yanked him toward the door, “You can make your shitty coffee and we can watch crappy television and you can tell me what to do and what I’m doing wrong with my life just like you always do.” 

                  Michael nodded, eyes still distant, chest still heaving from coughs un-released.

                  They began to move, driving through the blazing mess of what used to be a building.  Dean almost paused; sure he had heard the shift and crunch of gravel under another person’s feet. A person not him or Michael. Michael heard it too, but he had always been better at anticipating danger than Dean was.  Perhaps that was why things fell out the way they did. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. There are many perhapses but only one ending.  And the ending is this:

                  Michael and Dean both heard the other footsteps.  Michael moved first, throwing Dean down to the ground behind him, turning toward the noise.  A new sound rang forward, a sharp crack that could have been a breaking beam or a shooting gun. 

                  And Michael crumpled.  Dean, disoriented, but knowing there was a threat out there; rose on his knees and shot into the seething mass of red and gold and hunger that was the fire. Out there in the burning world another crack rang out, mirroring Dean’s.  Pain exploded in Dean’s left shoulder, crackling outward, burning up his nerves like the fire chewed up the building.  Dean still managed to squeeze off another shot.  Somewhere out there someone else crumpled, an illegal gun dropping from crime-soaked fingers. 

                  Dean couldn’t remember getting out of the fire.  It was all a blur of red and black and gray and white-hot pain.

                  He woke up hours later, in a hospital bed, listening to the squeal of the machines as the man in the bed next to Dean’s flat-lined.

                  The beautiful and terrible thing about painkillers is how one blink can eat up hours or minutes.  One blink later all the scrubbed-up nurses and doctors and important medical types had dispersed from the hopeless flat-liner’s bed.  And Dean got a good look at the face of his now-deceased neighbor.

                  A younger version of his father lay there, white and waxen and not looking at all like he was ‘only sleeping’.  Dean’s mind spiraled back to those last few days in the hospital with his dad. His dad hadn’t looked peaceful in death either.  Winchester men weren’t really mean to go anywhere peacefully. 

                  One blink later the bed next door was empty and Dean’s face was wet. Apparently crying while sleeping was completely possible.  

…

                  Sam got the phone call during dinner time.  He dashed out of the clinic, fear clouding his vision, making him dizzy and sick.  Spotting the bookseller standing in front of Beehive Books, Sam ran to him, tossed him his keys.

                  “It’s Dean and our Uncle Michael.” 

                  “I already knew that,” blue eyes stared sorrowfully out into the middle distance. 

                  “Watch my place and…yeah…” Sam dragged shaking fingers through his hair.

                  “Stay chartreuse.” 

                  Sam jerked his head over to glare at the other man, ready to chew him out for bringing his color crap into a serious crisis.  But the look on the other man’s face was serious and seemed so damn _compassionate_ and freaking _understanding._ And Sam thought he might get the color thing a little bit more. 

                  “And tell Dean to stay amber.  Or gold.” And with that, the strange man was turning back into his own storefront. 

                  “I know, I think I get it. I don’t want this to change me either,” Sam muttered, “When did staying gold get so damn hard?” 

…

                  Dean Winchester suffered mild burns, some smoke damage to his lungs and one bullet to the left shoulder.  He went home to Orcastle to recover.  His resignation letter arrived at the station a week later. 

                  Michael Winchester died a hero.  He was buried beside his late wife.  The whole Winchester clan showed up for his funeral. 

…

                  Castiel, Gabriel and Claire watched Sam arrive, Dean in the passenger seat, the Impala rumbling its way up the road to pull up in front of the shopping center they all occupied.  There was no heckling. Castiel felt Dean’s eyes on him and turned, meeting a pained green gaze.  “Stay gold, huh?” Dean muttered. 

                  “Harder than it looks,” Castiel murmured miserably, thinking of darkness and fire and charcoal grey days. 

                  “Yeah, man.  It sure as hell is.”

                  Castiel sighed, staring up at the sky, watching it drip and run in weak blue rivulets as the clouds couldn’t decide whether or not it should rain. Beginnings.  Raw and pink and fragile things.  They had one right here, even if it wasn’t a lavender day.


	6. Friends and Enemies and Family

**Chapter 5: Friends and Enemies and Family**

                  The phone rang in Castiel’s apartment and there was a strong chance he wouldn’t answer it.  Claire listened to it ring and ring, endless peals of jarring, jangling sound rasping against her eardrums. She glanced at the door to her uncle’s room. It was shut and silent, the door a quiet warning to the outside world not to intrude.  It was nine o’clock at night.  Dean Winchester had come home a few hours earlier, burned and broken.  After she, Gabe, and Castiel helped Sam get Dean settle Claire watched Castiel turn away and wander back to their apartment.  Once safely within the bounds of his own realm Castiel removed his tie, tossing it to the ground, a puddle of abandoned blue silk coiled up on the hardwood. Claire stood in the doorway, watching as he stripped off his white button-down and flung it carelessly aside. He stood in the middle of their apartment, incongruous in his black slacks and white t-shirt. Burn scars spun their way up his right arm, bubbling through the skin and ducking beneath the edges of the shirt as if embarrassed to be seen.  He held up his damaged right hand and stared at the scars, tracing them with his eyes. Claire saw the way the set of his shoulders shifted just a bit right before he dropped his hand and wandered into his room. 

                  “Come get me if you need me,” he told her. 

                  Then the door closed behind him. 

                  The rich, slick scent of paint and the harsh, searing tang of paint thinner trickled out from beneath the door to Castiel’s room and Claire couldn’t help but imagine the colors themselves slipping out too, escaping into the world, siphoning off the memories of fire and death that she knew haunted him even now.  Claire didn’t mind the hours Castiel spent in his room, painting or drawing or writing. She didn’t begrudge him that time. It did make her sad though, the knowledge that none of those painting or drawings or scribblings would see the light of day.  “Castiel Novak” was dead, there would be no more art shows or book releases for her uncle.

                  No, Claire did not begrudge Castiel his time with his art.

                  But now the phone was ringing and Claire was wondering if anyone was going to bother answering it.  It was one ring away from voicemail when she heard the click of her uncle picking up the call.  “Hello, you’ve reached the Swedish Embassy.  If you’re from Norway, hang up bitch.  If you’re here for the fish-candies, we aren’t running that promotion anymore. If you’re here for international politics you probably shouldn’t be leaving messages full of sensitive information, now should you?”

                  Claire smothered the urge to giggle.  _This_ was why she never answered the phone.  It may be mean of her, but she knew her uncle hated phones.  Of all kinds.  With the kind of burning, passion loathing usually reserved for bubonic plague and rival sports teams. So whenever Castiel picked up ‘that aggravatingly magenta device’ he made sure the person on the other end of the line was ‘completely dedicated to their cause’.  ‘Their cause’ being the use of the phone to contact him.   He determined the other person’s ‘dedication’ through the simple expedient of never answering the phone as himself. 

                  Clarie couldn’t hear what the other person’s response was exactly, but it was apparently important enough that Castiel’s door swung open and Castiel himself swept out, phone still held in one hand.  “Yes, Sam, I’ll be right over.  Don’t be lime green about this; that color clashes with chartreuse. No, you will never stop being the Chartreuse Man.  Yes, you could change your entire personality, but knowing you it would be to something equally ridiculous like Alizarin Crimson and then where would you be?” There was a lull in the conversation as Castiel tried to listen to whatever Sam said and put his button-down and tie back on one-handed at the same time.

                  Finally Castiel sighed, “Yes, Sam, don’t worry.  We’ll be there.”  And with that he hung up.  Castiel Novak was never one for goodbyes. 

                  “Claire, Sam Winchester needs help.  I’m going. Do you want to stay here and wallow in homework or listen in on the grown-ups conversation?”  He raised an eyebrow slightly.  It would have been a jaunty expression if he didn’t look so tired and sad. 

                  “Do you really need to ask?” Claire raised an eyebrow right back, a warm glow of happiness starting in her stomach when a smile flickered across Castiel’s lips and stuck. 

                  “That’s my girl,” Castiel held a hand out for her to take. She grabbed it and used it to haul herself to her feet. 

                  “Lets’ go.”

…

                  “I don ‘t need you guys to do much, just check in on him, sit with him as much as possible, and for god’s sake, make sure he takes his damn pain meds!” Sam Winchester sat at his kitchen table, elbows propped against the wood, eyes serious, “I can’t be here with him all the time, and I know he’s going to be asleep for most of the time, but seriously, he gets lonely when he’s stuck in bed, or on the couch as it were, and -.”

                  “We get it, Samsquatch, look after Dean-o while you’re at work! No need to get all bug-eyed!” Gabe threw up his hands as if to defend himself from the determined look in Sam’s hazel eyes.

                  “I know you guys probably need to work, and Claire’s in school,” Sam sounded almost apologetic, an awkward haze of periwinkle taking over his attitude.

                  Castiel cut him off; he didn’t much like periwinkle, “No we don’t.”

                  “What?”

                  “Need to work.  We don’t.”

                  “At the risk of sounding like a broken record, what?”

                  Claire sighed, “Uncle Gabe’s side of the family is kind of loaded. Working is more of a hobby for him than anything else.”

                  “Trust fund baby for the win!” Gabe said with dry irony.

                  “And money is not a great concern for me,” Castiel said simply, not interested in elaborating on the fact that he still received royalties for his published books from the old days. The publishers just happened to think they were paying his twin now.

                  “Are you guys sure?” Sam looked vaguely hopeful and distrusting all at the same time.

                  “Yeppers, Samsquatch!  We can look after Deanny-boy.”  Gabe was obviously trying extra hard right now, forcing the sheer yellowness of his attitude outwards as if he could paint them all that sunny shade and somehow eradicate the darkness nibbling at their ankles.  But Castiel could see the brunt umber sliding beneath the yellow waves. Even Gabe was not immune to tragedy.

                  “Ok,” Sam ran a hand through his over-long hair, “So he’s going to be on the couch all day for the next week or so, don’t let him be too active. As we wean him off painkillers he’s going to get stubborn and want to do more…”

                  Castiel, Claire and Gabe absorbed all Dr. Sam Winchester had to tell them. They had a job to do.

…

                  Dean woke up to the smell of casserole.  He hated casserole.  He hated casserole almost as much as he hated folk music and iPod jacks in his Impala. Although, through the foggy haze of painkillers and numbness, he could hear voices off in Sammy’s kitchen. Voices that apparently hated casserole as much as he did. 

                  “Reject.”

                  “Gabriel, you can’t just reject it out of hand.” 

                  “Yes I can.”

                  “On what basis?”

                  “It’s like a weird lasagna-casserole mutant.  And it has _peas_ in it. You know how I feel about _peas._ This thing is unholy, I’m telling you, Jamie.” 

                  There was a crinkle of aluminum foil and the huff of a single, delicate sniff. A pause.  “I agree.  We are not allowing anyone to consume that.  It’s _chamoisee.”_

                  “See? I told you so…Chamoisee is a color, right?  Not some weird food-dissing term I should know?”

                  “It’s an unappealing shade of vomit-ish-brown in most cases.”

                  “Then yeah, it totes applies.”

                  “Please try to sound as educated as you actually are, Gabriel. Claire doesn’t even say ‘totes’ and she’s thirteen.” 

                  The voices trailed off in a smog of tiredness and aching numbness, but Dean did have a moment of incongruous happiness.  James and Gabriel had saved him from eating _peas._ They were his new heroes. 

…

                  Dean slid and out of awareness for the next twenty-four hours and apparently the casseroles kept pouring in.  Dean recalled a short spurt of wakefulness in which he had enough presence of mind to ask Sam where all the casseroles and crap came from.

                  His brother snorted, “Apparently everyone and their brother in Orcastle feels like the best way to handle an injured hero is to drop off dishes of goop that might be creatively referred to as ‘casseroles’.  Gabe and James have been going through them and tossing the more inedible ones.” 

                  Dean, already fading back into sleep, chuckled dreamily, “Good, always hated peas, y’know?” 

…

                  Dean’s first lucid day was boring as hell.  He was alone for most of it as Gabriel and James had both admitted that they did need to open their respective stores at least once this week. Dean spent most of his time surfing his brother’s tv’s limited channels (the sasquatch was apparently too cheap to pay for cable) and trying and failing to doze off.  Things didn’t get anywhere near interesting until around one in the afternoon. 

                  A clatter-bang was the only warning Dean got before a trenchcoat-wearing bookseller had shoved his way through the door and into the living room, armed with a stack of books and a blue-eyed glare.  James dumped the books on the table as if the furniture had personally offended him and the books needed to teach it a stern lesson. James popped back upright, glared around the room, fixed Dean with an icy stare, snatched the remote from the other man’s unprotesting fingers and turned off the Spongebob Squarepants rerun Dean had been half-watching.  “You are better than this,” was all James would say before throwing himself into an armchair, snatching a book and shoving the rest of the pile at Dean.

                  Dean, bemused despite himself, glanced down at the pile. “What’ve you got here?”

                  “Overstock.”

                  “Uh-huh, and you’re here out of purely capitalist motives? Trying to fob overstock off on me?” Dean cocked an eyebrow doubtfully. 

                  “Pick a book and stop being cerulean about it.” 

                  Dean chuckled and grabbed a battered copy of ‘The Fellowship of the Ring.’

                  James made a curious noise. 

                  “What?” Dean growled, ready to defend the masculinity of reading about badass fantasy creatures fighting badass fantasy battles.

                  “Interesting choice.  I prefer ‘Two Towers’. Less irritating tree imagery. The wilderness descriptions were excessive and distracting in ‘Fellowship’.” 

                  “Dude, you did not just diss Lord of the freaking Rings. You’re a bookshop owner!”

                  James did not respond. Dean grumped at him for a solid minute. But, not drawing a response got boring so he just decided to read in silence.  He made sure to read any good bits of tree imagery out loud. Really loudly.

…

                  This became a pattern.  Every day, James would show up at Sam’s apartment, arms full of books, head apparently full of sarcasm and weird color analogies.  Every day they would grab books, James would make some snarky comment and Dean would snap at him and James wouldn’t give him a good fight, just let him snarl.

                  At three-thirty Claire appeared on the doorstep, homework and cello in tow. She would spread it all out, algebra and astronomy mixing with _Lord of the Rings_ and Agatha Christie.  Close to dinner time Claire would practice her cello and Sam would come home from the clinic. Once upon a time he had always gotten home after her impromptu performance.  That lasted until he caught the tail end of a piece she was running. Now Sam always got back in time to catch every note. 

                  Dean wasn’t really a cello person.  Alright, to be honest, he hated classical music with a passion only rivaled by his loathing for casseroles.  But Claire didn’t play classical music.  She played something else entirely.  In her hands those stodgy old notes from stodgy old composers transformed into something ethereal and not completely of this world.  Beautiful and heartbreaking and indescribable. Dean was sure he had caught Sam with watery eyes after one particularly powerful evening and he knew that Gabriel always ended up sniffling whenever the little baker caught Claire practicing. Even Dean would admit (but only quietly, in the very back of him mind where no one would hear it, not even God…he hoped) that a few of the better pieces had left him a little teary-eyed. But only a little. And they were _manly_ tears, dammit!

                  James was the only one who could remain stoic throughout an entire piece of music.  He would listen, a small smile on his face, blue eyes following every tiny movement of Claire’s fingers as they whispered across the strings.  But he didn’t seem to _react._ His features remained in the same pleasant, distracted expression for a soothing lullaby as they did for a roaring crescendo or even basic scales.  One night Dean finally had had enough and just asked. Dean had never been one for tact. “What’s with your face, dude? You never react.”

                  James raised a single eyebrow, “I do not understand the question.”

                  Dean almost shrugged, bit back a yelp of pain, and reconsidered creative shoulder movement.  “Your face, you’ve got the same expression for the entire performance, don’t you feel anything?”

                  James just shrugged.  Dean was instantly (and embarrassingly) slightly jealous of the blue-eyed bastard and his shoulder-shrugging abilities. 

                  “What, are you some kind of robot?  What’s your deal?” Dean continued to pester the other man, realizing he should probably let it go, but too committed to the question to pull back.

                  “I am not human, Dean,” James smiled enigmatically. 

                  “Uh-huh,” Dean played along, “Then what are you?”

                  “I am a wavelength of thought and sound energy.  This body is but a vessel.  My true form the size of your Chrysler building.”  And with a second mysterious smirk, James began to walk away.

                  “What? No, no walking away like that, dammit!” Dean was irrationally irritated with the weirdo living next door. 

                  Claire huffed a sigh, “He’s tone-deaf and likes to mess with people,” she explained, “I promise he’s not actually crazy.  I think.”  She grinned and Dean wondered if she secretly liked messing with people as much as her dad apparently did.

                  Dean laughed.  “Well, tell him not to get a big head.  The Chrysler Building’s lame.”

                  Claire chuckled, “And this is why you two are friends,” and then she was gone, taking her cello with her.

                  “Huh,” Dean said into the sudden quiet.

                  “What?” Sam asked from the kitchen. 

                  “Learning new stuff, you’d approve, you big nerd.” 

                  “Basic information about our neighbors doesn’t count as ‘learning’, bro.”

                  “Oh, so you knew he was tone-deaf?” 

                  “Uh, yeah.  Gabe uses it to prank him. At least once a week the music in the bookstore is switched to Justin Beiber or ‘Barbie Girl’ on repeat. James doesn’t notice and it doesn’t get fixed until Claire gets home,” Sam grimaced comically.

                  “Damn, I’d like to see that, I bet it’s hilarious.” 

                  “Yeah, it gets annoying really quick,” Sam had a pained look on his face and Dean was resisting the urge to bust out laughing. 

                  There was a lull in the conversation as Dean chuckled a bit and Sam grimaced at him.  After a few minutes, Dean broke the strange quiet.  “Since when are James and I friends?”

                  Sam snorted, “You just now figured it out?”

                  “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like me.” 

                  “Uh-huh.”

                  “And I’m pretty sure I don’t like him.”

                  “See, friends,” Sam pointed out, snickering as Dean threw a pillow at him, “Seriously, Dean, they’re a little weird but these people are good. You’re lucky if they’re your friends.”

                  Dean snorted, but he was still smiling.  Just a little bit, though. 

…

                  It’s late at night and Castiel is still awake.  This is common enough.  He doesn’t really sleep, after all.  Claire doesn’t know how little time Castiel actually spends sleeping. For the past eight years it’s been catnaps and four-hour REMs and the occasional stolen six hours on a really good night. A good therapist would have said it was trauma left over from waking up to the roar of the fire and the choking smoke tearing apart what he had.  A good therapist might have prescribed him sleeping pills. And Castiel wouldn’t have taken them. He was stubborn like that about strange things. 

                  Whatever the reason, whatever the rhyme, Castiel was awake at two in the morning. Feeling trapped in his room, he meandered into the living, then spilled into the kitchen.  Finally he ended up on the tile floor, leaning against a cabinet, laptop balanced across his knees.  He glared at the screen, stabbing irritable fingers into keys that just wouldn’t tap out the proper words. 

                  Sighing, Castiel tipped his head back, resting it against the smooth wood of the drawer behind him, considering the wisdom of deleting the last fifteen pages. Silence slid into the darkness, staining the world a mysterious navy blue.  Castiel liked navy.  It was soothing and peaceful and perfect and strong.  He felt safe in a navy-infused world. 

                  A shuffling sound.  Out in the hall. Castiel sat up, listening, every muscle tense and ready for fight or flight.  He felt like a bird perched, about to take off or attack.  Setting aside the laptop, Castiel slipped through the darkness, prowling toward the door, footsteps backlit by the trickle of light from the dim screen. He got to the door, slid it open, just a crack.  He peered into the dimness, dark-adjusted eyes catching details daylight people would miss.

                  There was a man in the hallway.  He stumbled slightly, staggering.  His breath hissed out in a painful rush as he collided with the wall.

                  “Damn…what? What’sa goin’ on?” the man slurred, voice groggy. And familiar. 

                  “Dean Winchester?” Castiel asked softly, watching as the man-shaped figured turned and slid down the wall until he sat on the floor, back to the wall.

                  “Yeah…where am I?” he mumbled, running a hand down his face.

                  “In the hallway.” 

                  “Really? Weird place to be. Y’know, I don’t remember any hallways when I fell asleep…”

                  “Huh,” Castiel looked at him, head cocked to the side, considering.

                  “Why am I in the hallway?”  Dean asked, as if Castiel could somehow provide and answer to that (not completely invalid) question. 

                  “I think you sleepwalk.”

                  “Wow. That’s stupid of me.”

                  “Yes, especially considering that you are probably locked out of Sam’s apartment now,” Castiel observed. 

                  “Ok, so it’s really stupid of me.” 

                  “A bit.” 

                  Dean whistled, low and soft, “You don’t pull punches, do ya?”

                  Castiel snorted quietly, leaning against his doorframe.  “Do you want to sit in my living room until Sam awakens and unlocks the door?” 

                  “That’d awesome.” 

                  Castiel sighed as if it were some great inconvenience, even though it wasn’t. “Come on, then.”

                  Dean tried to get up, wobbled and slid back down.  He grunted, grumbled and tried again, with the same results.

                  “Do you want help?” Castiel offered.

                  “No,” Dean gritted out before trying twice more to stand.

                  “Yes,” Castiel changed his answer for him, strode over, letting his own door drift shut behind him and grabbed Dean’s uninjured shoulder and arm. “You need help, now ask for it nicely.”             

                  “No.”

                  Castiel gave him a look, “You’re being a disgusting shade of swamp green right now.  It’s revolting. Now use your manners. I’ve met your mother, lovely woman that she is.  I’m sure she gave you a spoonful of manners along with your morning Cheerios.  I’ll ask again, do you want help?” 

                  Dean glared at him.  It was dark and Castiel couldn’t _see_ it in the traditional sense, but he knew it was there. “You’re being puce again. Puce and swamp are not a pleasant combination,” Castiel told him conversationally.

                  “Fine, help?” Dean muttered, then, catching sight of Castiel’s expression, rephrased, “Help, _please._ ”

                  Castiel helped him to his feet.  They turned, facing the Novak door, only to realize it had fallen shut in Castiel’s absence. 

                  “You don’t have a key, do you?” Dean muttered. 

                  “No.”

                  “We’re both stuck out here, now aren’t we?”  Dean sighed, resigned. 

                  “Yes.”

                  “Well, damn.  It’s a good thing I’m a bit whacked on painkillers.” He grimaced a bit as a change in position dragged on his shoulder wound, “Or this would be a really uncomfortable experience.”

                  Castiel threw a withering glance his direction.  He wasn’t sure Dean received it, but making the face made Castiel feel a bit better. 

                  Within a few minutes they were both propped up against the wall, staring at the ceiling and regretting various life choices that led them to be stranded out here in the hallway at two in the morning. 

                  Finally, Dean broke the silence.  “So, why do you do it?” 

                  “Do what?” Castiel asked. 

                  “Poke at me, try to make me mad.  Every day you’ve shown up at Sam’s place you’ve tried to start a fight or at least some sort of weird-ass bickering-fest with me.  So, what gives, man?”

                  Castiel sighed, “I’m waiting for you to snap.” 

                  “Say what?” 

                  In for a half, in for a whole.  “Greif does that, it gets in your head and the injustice of it all just sits and marinates in there until one day, _boom._ Someone gets chewed out over something small and it all snowballs and eventually after the fight things go back to normal, but they’re never quite normal afterward. I didn’t want you to do that to Sam.”

                  “You were trying to make me freak out at you?” 

                  “Yes. You’re surprisingly even-tempered for someone who wears his heart on his metaphorical sleeve,” Castiel said wryly.

                  Dean chuckled, “Sam and Claire are right, you’re  a pretty good friend.” 

                  Castiel snorted, “Oh, everything I’ve said is true.  The excessive tree-imagery in ‘Fellowship of the Ring’ is ridiculous, the plots of most American crime fiction are trite and AngelFall is a cheap thriller.”

                  “Shut up before these pain meds wear off and I’m pissed enough to hurt you,” Dean threatened jovially, “All of those books kick ass and AngelFall rocks. Even if the author did die before writing the last book.   Favorite books of all time, right there,” he grinned to himself. 

                  Castiel decided it was best not to tell him what he was thinking at that exact moment, it was along the lines of incoherent and seemed to mostly repeat two main ideas: _‘how the hell are my books someone’s favorites’_ and _‘thank god I used a pen-name.  Emmanuel Grace is a lot less obvious than James or Castiel Novak’._ Instead of voicing these opinions, Castiel just snorted. Dean elbowed him with his good arm.

                  They sat in the hallway until morning, poking fun at each other like a pair of enemies.  Dean went home (when Sam sheepishly bothered to let his sleep-walking brother back in) thinking he was glad he found friends when he back to Orcastle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Swedish embassy thing, a short explanation. The Swedes hate the Norwegians. Simple cultural fact with way too much history attached to it. The mention of candy fish is a reference to the candy ‘Swedish Fish’.   
> The LotR stuff, I share Cas’ opinion about ‘Fellowship’, I much prefer ‘Two Towers’…not that any of you actually wanted to know that…  
> Anywho...thanks for reading!


	7. The Orcastle Ladies Literary Society and Other Unstoppable Forces of Nature

**Chapter 6: The Orcastle Ladies’ Literary Society and Other Unstoppable Forces of Nature**

                  A week or so after the night Castiel and Dean were locked out of their apartments; Dean was slowly driving everyone around him slightly insane. It was a natural, organic process, the insanity brewing slowly over the course of several days, coming to a slow simmer for some, a rolling boil for others.  One by one every person living in above the storefronts was slowly being pushed closer and closer to the edge of madness by one Dean Winchester.

                  “He was easier to manage when he was drugged-up and pathetic!” griped Gabriel, throwing his hands in the air in defeat. 

                  “I can hear you, midget,” Dean pointed out. 

                  “I mean, seriously, he was like giant, man-shaped kitten for a few weeks. We just had to feed him, water him and make sure he didn’t skip out on its medicine.  Easy peasy.  But _now,_ ” Gabriel apparently did not feel the need to listen to other people while ranting.

                  “I can _still hear you_ , midget,” Dean pointed out again. 

                  “ _Now,_ it’s all ‘I’m bored’ or ‘I’m going to try to do this stupid thing or that stupid thing since Sammy’s not around to bully me into not aggravating my freaking _gunshot wound_ ’.  Ugh.  I can’t take down a giant-ass baby like Dean when he’s all determined to be self-destructive!” Gabriel was still griping. 

                  “No, no, you could never take me down, and I will twist you into the world’s first human pretzel if you don’t shut up at some point,” Dean growled.

                  “I am sure there are other human pretzels on the planet, Dean,” Castiel commented, only now bothering to look up from the ledger he was updating.

                  “ _Jamie,_ big mean Deanie’s _threatening me!”_ Gabriel made a strange flailing motion Castiel was sure was meant to be dramatic but just came across as vaguely jelly-fish-like. 

                  “How appallingly orange of him,” Castiel mused, only half-serious, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

                  “Ugh, you’re no help!” sighed Gabriel, “You know what you are, Jamie, you’re an enabler.  You’re enabling him to drive me nuts.” 

                  “How many times can I say this without you realizing _that I can still hear you_?” Dean asked incredulously.

                  “You didn’t have to help with this, Gabriel,” Castiel reminded his cousin.

                  “What can I say, I’m a kind-hearted soul,” Gabriel plopped into a chair beside his cousin, glowering mildly at the Winchester sprawled across the couch, “So what’s the game-plan, then?  Watch this guy and stop him from doing something unusually stupid in a fit of ‘I’m a Winchester-and-therefore-think-I-am-a-indestructible-god’?”

                  “Essentially, yes,” Castiel said, making a few marks in his ledger. He’d always preferred to keep records for the shop in pen.  It somehow seemed purer. 

                  Gabriel snorted, “Great, on baby-sitting duty for the one person on the planet who isn’t willing to sit around and wait to heal while being waited on hand and foot.” 

                  Castiel, not looking away from his ledger, reached out the hand not occupied with the pen and patted Gabriel’s shoulder a few times in an awkward-only-half-paying-attention-to-this sort of comforting manner. “There, there. There, there.”

                  “Since you guys seem to be doing just fine without me, I’m gonna drive to the store and pick up some pie,” Dean began to climb off the couch.

                  Both Castiel and Gabriel’s heads snapped up.  “SIT DOWN!” they snapped in an impressive display of synchronized thought. 

                  Dean sighed, grumbling mutinous things like “I knew you were listening” and “Damn boring”. 

                  “Just go back to your irritating tree imagery and you’ll feel much better,” Castiel said in his awkwardly reassuring manner. 

                  Dean snorted, “No respect for classics these days,” before scooping up the tattered copy of ‘Fellowship of the Ring’ and settling in to devour it once more.

…

                  The next two weeks crumbled together and puddled on the floor in a pile of tiny, crumb-like incidents.

                  Dean got bored and tried to cook while Castiel was snoozing in the armchair. That little incident had ended in Dean accidentally splattering thick, goopy cherry pie filling across Castiel’s trenchcoat and white shirt.  Castiel didn’t mind much.  The pie filling was a lovely shade of maroon, the perfect color for his most recent painting. Unfortunately, this meant he kept the stain on his coat for as long as possible so he would have reference material when mixing paint.  Once dry, maroon slpatter-marks on clothing tend to look a bit like blood, at least to the outside observer.  Castiel did not really consider this when he wore the coat to the grocery store that Thursday. The rumor mill spun for weeks on maroon-stained grist.   

                  The next day Dean, still bored with slow recuperation, tried to work on his car.  Sam intercepted him on the stairs and threatened to sedate him if he tried to escape again. Dean crawled out a window. Gabriel caught him and sent him right back to Sam’s apartment before he even reached the ground.

                  Dean tried to cook again and accidentally set Sam’s shirt on fire.

                  Dean spent over an hour trying to guess Castiel’s password just to get into his laptop. 

                  Dean gave up on cracking Castiel’s laptop (but only after confusing it enough to send it into self-imposed lockdown) and instead hacked Gabriel’s.

                  Dean realized that hacking a laptop is no fun once you accomplish it and turned to other options for boredom-relief. 

                  All and all, it was a maddening month for Team Heal Dean.

…

                  “Dean.”

                  “Dean.”

                  “Dean!”

                  “What, Sammy?” 

                  Sam sighed in irritation, “You can’t just ignore me because you’re bored and sulky.” 

                  “Real men don’t sulk.  They brood. With dignity.”

                  “What does that say about you then, sulky-pants?” Sam asked.

                  Dean snorted, “Sulky-pants?  Dude, lame insult.” 

                  Sam shrugged, “Best I could do with limited resources.”

                  “Yeah, whatever lets you sleep at night, bitch.  So, what do you want?  I assume there’s a reason you’re nagging me during your lunch break.”

                  “Shut up, jerk. And I was wondering what your plans were…for you know…after.”

                  “After what, Sammy?” 

                  Oh god, Dean was going to make him spell it out, wasn’t he? Why couldn’t he just read between the lines and let Sam off the hook?  “What are you going to do after you’re healed, Dean?  You can’t just crash on my couch forever.”

                  “Well, from what’s been going on the past few weeks; that seems to be where everyone seems to want to keep me.” 

                  “Dean, don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Sam groaned.

                  “How am I making it hard, Sam?” Dean growled, a dangerous glint sparking in the dark center of his eyes. 

                  “Goddammit, Dean!” Sam snapped, exasperation welling and bubbling and boiling over in a stinging flood, “You have a degree in education, for god’s sake! And over a decade in law enforcement! You have education and training and job experience, you’ve got to have some sort of _plan_ for what happens after that shoulder heals.  Will you go back to New York?  Will you stay in Orcastle?  If you stay here where are you going to live?  What are you going to do?  Do you even _have_ a plan?”

                  “I don’t wanna talk about this right now, Sammy,” Dean gritted out through clenched teeth.

                  “A plan, Dean.  That’s all I want from you, I want to know you have some idea where the hell you’re going and what you’re going to do when you get there.” 

                  “Not right now, Sammy.”

                  “Dean-.”

                  “Sammy. Mind your own damn business.”

                  “But,-.”

                  “SAMMY! _Not right now!”_

Silence dropped down around them, too heavy and too cold and almost wet in its oppressive weight.

                  “Fine,” Sam murmured, “Fine.” 

                  “Fine,” growled Dean, but Sam could barely hear the venom that had been staining his voice. 

                  Sam left the room, quiet footsteps dropping down and away in every sense of the word as he went back downstairs to his clinic, leaving his half-eaten sandwich behind, not even caring that he had lost his lunch. The rest of his lunch break would be better served doing something for his actual job than fighting with his impossible brother. 

…

                  A few painful minutes of movement later, Dean, partially-healed injury and all, was standing in Beehive Books, across the counter from one Castiel Novak. Store traffic was almost dead.  Only one or two customers drifted through the stacks. 

                  “Hey, J,” Dean said, rapping his knuckles against the fake wood of the counter in a rolling little drumbeat. 

                  Castiel looked up, the new nickname catching his mind’s eye. It wasn’t really _Castiel’s_ nickname, just James’ initial. But something about it was special, specific to _him._ No one had ever called Jimmy ‘J’.  ‘J’ was his; and his alone, the way nothing about him had been since Jimmy died.  That independence, that autonomy filled Castiel with a sort of twisted pleasure. But thinking that made Castiel feel like a traitor.  He tried not to appreciate the nickname too much. 

                  “Hello, Dean.  Wandering again?”

                  “Uh, something like that.” 

                  There was a lull in the conversation.  Dean hummed, or at least Castiel thought he might have been. Castiel really didn’t see any other reason for the other man to be making a string of nonsense sounds.

                  “Arylide yellow.” Castiel sliced through the noisy silence with a few words, cutting a tidy incision in the atmosphere and leaving it open to be filled as the universe saw fit. 

                  Dean snorted, used to the sudden appearance of colors in conversation. “Am I being ari-, arl-, ugh, whatever that fancy yellow was?” 

                  “Hmm, it’s more the color of the situation.”      

                  “It’s not a pretty yellow, is it?” 

                  “I do not like it.” 

                  “Anything like Gabe’s brand of yellow?”

                  Castiel chuckled, shaking his head at Dean’s ignorance, “No, Gabriel is a true, bright yellow.  Pure. Aggravating, but in pure in its intents and identity.” 

                  “Sounds easy.” 

                  “It can seem easy, being yellow.”

                  Dean chuckled, “But it’s not easy being green.” 

                  There was an awkward pause. 

                  “I do not understand that reference,” Castiel blinked, confusion puddling in his mind and leaking out his lips. 

                  “Never mind, J.”

                  Another pause.  But this time Dean broke it before Castiel could make any more observations on its color scheme. “I did that thing you were talking about.”

                  “Yes?”

                  “I yelled at Sammy.  Poor kid’s just trying to help and I’m just being, well, me.  It’s just, ugh, fucking lonely, you know?”              

                  An older lady gave Dean a reproachful look as she shouldered he way past him to pay for her book.  Castiel heard her hiss, “Language, young man.  Really. This is a _nice_ shop.”

                  “Attention all personal problems of Dean Winchester, you are all temporarily suspended without pay until further notice.  Frankly, you’re disturbing the townspeople, and the Management just can’t have that, now can we?” Castiel dryly countered the woman’s jab. Dean looked like he might have a fit resisting the urge to laugh and the older lady was giving Castiel a suspicious look.  But her _look_ was tempered with a heavy dose of reluctantly twinkling eyes and an indulgent smile trying to creep along the edges of her thin lips. She took her book and her change and hustled out the door. 

                  “Are my ‘personal problems’ off suspension now?”  Dean asked wryly. 

                  “For now,” Castiel made sure to smile enigmatically. 

                  Dean sighed.  “I don’t even know where I was going with that little stupid-ass rant.  Just, you were right, grief screws with your head and I’m taking it out on Sammy now and that’s not fair.  All he was doing was asking what I was going to do next. And I just plain don’t know. I’m stuck, J.”

                  Castiel breathed out, one slow huff, his mind slipping back to the first few months without Jimmy.  “You were close to your uncle.” Castiel did not ask the question so much as state a fact.

                  “Yeah…and no.   Y’know? It’s one of those things.”

                  _One of those things._ Once upon a time Castiel would have killed for a family in which ‘one of those things’ didn’t mean loving your brothers despite all the time they spent trying to destroy each other, not caring that you could be collateral damage.  But Castiel did not want to bring his brothers into this. “Family.  So many shades of grey.” 

                  Dean blinked, looked mildly nauseated, and said, “Please, dear god, tell be that you didn’t just reference _that book_ in conjunction to _family._ ”

                  Castiel blinked, feeling miffed that Dean would even think such a thing. “No, how appallingly bisque of you to think so.” 

                  “Just checking, man, you do own a bookstore.” 

                  “Dean, stop trying to offend me.  You don’t actually want to fight with me and your efforts are irritating.”

                  There was a pause.  Castiel grabbed a box of books and slipped out from behind the counter.  Dean trailed after him as the smaller man began systematically shelving the volumes.  They continued like this for several minutes, the dusty quiet only disturbed by the thunk-shh of books being returned to their shelf homes. 

                  “I know I don’t want to fight you, J,” Dean said, voice quiet in the emptiness of the store. 

                  Castiel chose not to respond, he could feel more words trying to escape from Dean.

                  “But I want to fight _someone._  I want to tear and punch and kick and break and…maybe not someone. Something.  Yeah, I want to fight something.  And I want to win.  I want to fucking win for once.”  The words rushed out of Dean like prisoners through an unlocked door.   He stared at the space above Castiel’s head the entire time, but Castiel could feel the words hitting him anyway, twisting their way into his heart and mind like corkscrews.

                  “I understand.”  Two words were all Castiel had to offer.  Two tiny words trying to stand in an onslaught of borrowed trauma and suppressed memory.

                  “I’m so screwed up,” Dean murmured, voice rising slightly on the end, as if he were surprised at the depth of his screwed-up-ed-ness.

                  “We all are, Dean,” Castiel told him. 

                  Dean snorted, “You’re not gonna tell me some shit about how ‘it’s all going to be ok’? 

                  Castiel shrugged, “I could tell you anything.  A whole rainbow of words.  But that’s not what you really want any more than you actually want to beat the shit out of someone.”

                  Dean grunted in wonder, “How do you do it?”

                  “What?”

                  “Be you.  And do it so well.”

                  Castiel felt a laugh crawling up his throat, trying to strangle him with demented, broken hilarity.  It scratched at his esophagus, clawing at his flesh and tearing at his soul. When it finally wheezed out his lips it was nothing but a dry cough, just as dry as the silky, second-hand pages of the books he was returning to their shelves.  “Oh, Dean.  You are so amber.” 

                  “Um, I thought I was baring my soul here or something and you’re talking about…amber?”  Dean sounded a little irritated and confused, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to be upset about.

                  Castiel smiled, a small internal little gesture.  “Don’t worry about it, Dean.” 

                  “Uh, sure, dude.  I’ll do that.”

                  There was a small almost-silence as Castiel continued to shelve. Suddenly another arm joined him, a book grasped in foreign fingers.  The bookseller turned his head, surprised to spot Dean shelving books with his good arm.  “What?” Dean said, almost-but-not-quite belligerently, as if challenging Castiel to tell him off for helping. 

                  Castiel snorted, “See, amber.”

                  Dean snorted right back, shaking his head.

                  Quiet shelving eventually gave way to Dean asking a question, the same one Sam had pestered him with earlier.  The one that had been eating away at the bottom of his stomach for weeks, driving him to fidget and fiddle and generally drive his keepers to the brink of insanity.  “What am I supposed to do now?” Dean asked, rubbing the back of his head.

                  Castiel stopped and turned his gaze back onto his new neighbor, and asked the question that had, unbeknownst to any other living creature, set him on the path he now tread.  “Who are you, Dean Winchester?” 

                  “What?” Dean sounded surprised. 

                  “Who are you, Dean Winchester?  Figure it out, and you’ll know what to do next.” 

                  “Damn, J, did you have to get deep about this?” 

                  Castiel laughed dryly, “Go apologize to your brother for being an assbutt and get to figuring it out.” 

                  “Assbutt?”

                  “Don’t judge me.” 

                  Dean laughed at him, voice sounding a little less broken and lonely now. He left, going next door to talk to Sam.

                  Castiel sighed into the empty store, thinking back on his own question and his own answer eight years. 

                  _Who are you, Castiel Emmanuel Novak?_

_I am all Claire and I have._

                  And here he was.

…

                  “I give up!” Claire cried a few days later, dramatically flinging aside her history textbooks and flopping back onto the armchair, “History is boring and I’ll never remember all this crap!” 

                  “Hey, don’t knock history, blondie,” Dean warned from where he was laid up on the couch, “History kicks ass.” 

                  Claire eyed him with narrowed eyes.  “Prove it.”

                  Dean narrowed his eyes right back, “Challenge accepted, short stuff.”

                  “Okay.”

                  “Time period.”

                  “Civil war.”

                  “Okay, what battle?” 

                  “Gettysburg.”

                  “Ok, get the salt shakers, they’re the artillery.  That pencil’s the battle line.  How many erasers do you have?”               

                  “A lot.”

                  “Okay, they’re our Calvary.” 

…

                  Meanwhile, downstairs at the bookstore, Castiel was besieged. It was a well-established fact that the Orcastle Ladies’ Literary Society was a force of nature greater in strength and might than your average natural disaster.  It was also an established fact that the Orcastle Ladies’ Literary Society met every month, come rain or shine, at Beehive Books. Usually, Castiel was prepared for this… event.  He marked it on his calendar, he readied himself for the sudden onslaught of mothering . But with everything that had been going on recently, it had completely slipped his mind until he was locking up the store at five. 

                  At first he assumed that it was just another unexpected visit from Mary Winchester.  She had been coming by to visit and help with Dean over the past few weeks, often armed with pie.

                  “Hello, Jamie,” Mrs. Winchester smiled warmly, cheeks flushed and hair ruffled from the nippy fall breeze. 

                  “Hello, Mary.  Dean is upstairs, in Sam’s apartment, as usual.”

                  “Thank you, Jamie, but Dean’s not why I’m here.” 

                  Castiel blinked at her, perplexed.

                  “The book club…?”she prompted. 

                  Castiel blinked again, still perplexed. 

                  “Oh, did you forget?’ 

                  Castiel blinked one more time.  “Perhaps…” he hedged. 

                  “Forget, boy?” another female voice behind him made Castiel twitch and whip around. Ellen Harvelle shook her head at him, “Good lord, you’d forget to feed yourself if you didn’t keep a checklist.”

                  “I am a fully functioning adult, Ellen,” Castiel reminded her, smiling at the old joke between the two of them. 

                  The auburn-haired woman reached up and ruffled his hair, “Well, you certainly didn’t remember to run a brush through this mop.”

                  “And you didn’t remember to keep your promise to ask Bobby Singer out before the next book club meeting,” a third voice chimed in.

                  “Lisa Hendrickson, I will ask that man out when I am good and ready to,” Ellen grumped at her. 

                  “Well, if you don’t, I will,” Pamela Barnes (where had _she_ come from?! Castiel wondered, these women were freaking ninjas!) teased. 

                  “Uh-huh, as soon as you’re done dredging up the courage to go after Benny Lafitte. How long have you had that little crush, huh Pam?” Jody elbowed her friend.  (Castiel had given up on trying to spot the women before they appeared. They were just too good at sneaking around). 

                  He sighed, listening to the women of Orcastle banter, the conversation turning from Pamela and Ellen’s (semi-non-existent) love lives to Lisa and her husband Victor’s vow-renewal that December. 

                  “Are you taking Ben on the trip?” Jody asked. 

                  “Well, we were talking about it, and we really want Ben to be part of the ceremony.   Even Ben says that Vic’s like his dad, and we’re going to Hawaii, how can we not take him? Hawaii is like thirteen-year-old boy heaven.” 

                  Ellen snorted out a laugh, “I’m pretty sure that Hawaii is anyone’s idea of heaven, sweetie.” 

                  “Do you want me to unlock the door or are you going to stand on my doorstep being cyan and talking about your children, husbands, and men you’ve been pining after for years?” Castiel sighed. 

                  Mary smiled gently, “Are you trying to go home, Jamie?”

                  “A little bit,” he admitted. 

                  “Then just leave us in the shop, we don’t need to be supervised,” the reliability of Pamela’s words was called into serious question after the heavily flirtatious wink she aimed at Castiel. He didn’t take it personally. She flirted with everyone she wasn’t seriously interested in.  Case in point, her months of awkward fumbling with Benny Lafitte, the charming owner of the local Cajun restaurant. 

                  Castiel rubbed his temples.  It had been a busy day.  He had told Sam that he would check on Dean that afternoon, but the recent release of the first book in the _Chronicles of Moondor_ sequel series (which Castiel may or may not have read all in one sitting the night before during a particularly bad bout of insomnia) had brought an unexpected rush of customers, drowning Castiel in a sea of work with no land in sight until official Tuesday closing time (five o’clock).  Dean had gone un-checked-on and Claire was left to her own devices with her homework.

                  A soft touch on his arm temporarily distracted him from his stress. Mary Winchester smiled at him, “Why don’t we girls meet up in Sam’s apartment?  I wanted to check on Dean, anyway. You can go get some sleep; you look like death warmed over.”

                  Castiel gave her a wry smile, “As usual, your compliments leave me breathless, Mrs. Winchester.” 

                  “Charming as ever, Mr. Novak,” Mary gave his arm a maternal pat. “Come on, girls, we’re invading Sam’s place for today.” 

                  Castiel hoped his sigh of relief wasn’t too obvious. 

…

                  Conversation was lively as the women of Orcastle made their way up the stairs to Sam’s apartment above the clinic. 

                  “Ugh, I’m stuck, I swear to whatever the hell you want me to, this damn substitute teacher is going to make me kill something,” Ellen grumbled.

                  “She can’t be that bad…” Lisa said. 

                  “Is she the one that made Bess Fitzgerald _cry_ the other day?” Pamela demanded indignantly, “Because Garth was talking about it at the radio station the other day; he did not take kindly to someone harassing his wife.” 

                  “Bess’ the orchestra director, right?” Jody clarified.

                  “Yeah,” Ellen groaned, “And this damn substitute history teacher is apparently terrorizing the poor thing.  You know what the students call the sub?  Hell-bitch.  Yeah. I’m waiting for them to go after the woman with sporks, it’s that bad.” 

                  “Still can’t find a history teacher, huh?”  Mary said. 

                  “No! And Ruby has got to go; she’s the worst sub we’ve ever had.” Ellen rubbed her face, “Being principal is supposed to be easier than teaching.  That’s a big fat lie if I’ve ever heard one.  High-schoolers are easy to manage.  Their instructors are the nightmare.”                  

                  A supportive murmur rose from the women as they came to a halt outside Sam’s door.  Mary turned the knob, knowing it would be unlocked, and slid it open, peering around the edge. She stepped straight into the Battle of Gettysburg.

…

                  “Ok, and what happened next?” Claire demanded. 

                  “You tell me, blondie,” Dean prompted, green eyes alive with the contagious energy of the battle they were reenacting across the coffee table.

                  Claire chewed her lip, “Oh!  And then the salt shakers launched a final volley-.” 

                  Dean made the appropriate sound effects, squashing some of the crumpled-notebook-paper infantry.  Claire cheered, clapping. 

                  “And then what did-.” Dean began to ask when Ellen’s voice cut through the commotion of Gettysburg, dragging them back to Orcastle. 

                  “You’re hired!”

                  “What?” was, of the course the extremely intelligent thing to drop out of Dean’s mouth.

                  “This is not optional, Winchester.  You’re my new history teacher.  If you can do the Battle of Gettysburg with erasers and salt-shakers, you can teach high schoolers.” 

                  “Doesn’t this have to go through the school board or something…?”

                  “Pssh, they’re not going to care,” Pamela asserted. 

                  “I do what I want,” Ellen declared, folding her arms across her chest. “And I want you to replace the Hell-Bitch.”

                  “I feel like I’m missing something here…” Dean began, before Lisa cut him off.

                  “Don’t screw this up, Dean.  You’ve been my friend since we were toddlers, and I’m asking you very nicely not to screw this up for yourself or I’ll send my big, scary FBI agent husband to beat you up,” Lisa chastised, a smile twinkling in her eyes. 

                  Dean snorted, “Yeah, yeah, Lis, brotherhood of men, Victor’s not roughing me up.” 

                  “Victor’s whipped, and you’re joining my staff, Winchester,” Ellen declared.

                  “Take the job, you’re making a periwinkle racket in my hallway, I do have to live here, you know,” a familiar bookseller’s voice grouched from behind the wall of women. 

                  “Hey, J.”

                  “Hello, Dean.  Answer the damn question already and take the job, I have a migraine and you people are loud.”

                  _Who are you, Dean Winchester?_

_Apparently an educator, who knew?_

It was a start.


	8. This is Halloween

**Chapter 7: This is Halloween**

**A few weeks later…**

                  “I swear to god, Mr. Winchester is trying to kill me. I’m dying.  Dead.  Here I am, a high-achieving corpse.  I’ll just lie here and decorate this countertop for the rest of time.  An empty shrine to the false gods of Advanced Placement,” Kevin Tran, high school student, may have continued along this vein for quite some time if he hadn’t suddenly found his hair full of bright orange pastry cream.

                  “Ack! What the-!  GABRIEL!”  Kevin flailed unproductively, trying to dislodge the creamy orange froth trickling into his eyes. 

                  “TRICK OR TREAT!” Gabriel howled with laughter, watching as Kevin leapt away from the display counter, pawing at the cream in his face.

                  “Pleh-.” Kevin spat out a bit of orange fluff, “What was THAT?!”

                  “Halloween preparations, dear boy!” Gabriel sing-songed, twirling a lollipop as he eyed his young employee appraisingly.  “The world’s greatest holiday is a mere week away and you had the audacity to gripe about your _history teacher._ Feh, _history. BORING._ New rule: no talking about boring things in this shop.  Not a single ounce of boring shall be permitted to cross this hallowed threshold!”

                  The bell atop the shop door chimed as James Novak slid in out of the cold, trench coat billowing behind him. 

                  “No, no, no!  Jamie, get your boring little butt out of here, I’ve just instituted a new rule and everything!” Gabriel declared.

                  James cocked his head to the side and regarded Gabriel with his piercing blue eyes.  Kevin always thought being looked at by James Novak was a lot like being x-rayed.  Radiation included. 

                  “I refuse to comply to your appallingly monochromatic standards,” James declared.

                  Gabriel snorted, “Fine, social rebellion makes you interesting enough to stay, but you are walking a very thin line, mister,” he declared, whipping up a decisive pointer finger. 

                  “Good to know,” James murmured abstractly, “Is it almost Halloween or are you decorating interns again?” 

                  “Both…?” Gabriel’s response was more of a question than an answer.

                  James snorted, “Orange is a terrible color for that boy. Focus on cooler shades.”

                  “Ay, ay, captain,” Gabriel said ironically, with a flourishy little bow “I bow to your superior knowledge of art and design.” 

                  James nodded sagely, “As well you should.”  Kevin had no idea if he was joking or not. The thought was rather unsettling either way. 

                  “Is there a point to this or are you just going to pick on me?” Kevin demanded irritably. 

                  “Picking on you,” both said at once, Gabriel with a chipper smile and James with a slightly perplexed look on his face as if he couldn’t imagine what might make Kevin think he _needed_ any other reason to be here. 

                  “Great,” Kevin threw up his hands (now sticky with dripping orange pastry cream) in defeat, “First my psycho new history teacher, now the two of you. I’ll be dead by spring.”

                  “Apparently Dean-o is Kev-Kev’s history teacher!” Gabriel informed James as he whipped out a pan of chocolate cupcakes and began to deftly fill them with the orange pastry cream not currently sliding down Kevin’s face.

                  “And he’s trying to kill me.”

                  James looked unsympathetic.  “I assure you, no high school students have suffered death-by-battle-reenactment to date.”

                  “It’s not just the reenacting (although, for the record, using dodge-balls as artillery _hurts_ ) it’s all the _work._ We’re building a life-sized catapult replica. _Life-sized. Catapult._   Do you have any idea how hard it is to find specs for an ancient catapult?” 

                  “How whimsically carnelian.  Sounds like fun,” was James’ only comment on Kevin’s suffering. 

                  Kevin responded by face-planting into his textbooks again, yelping and leaping back as he realized the orange cream in his hair had transferred onto a timeline on page 336.

                  As Gabriel’s favorite (not that he needed to know it) intern flailed about trying to salvage his homework, the baker turned to his favorite (and the little bugger knew it) cousin.  “What can I do for you, Jimbo? You can’t have come in here just to poke at little Kevie.”

                  “Ah, yes, I did have a reason for being here,” James hedged, gaze drifting off the way it often did, as if he were trying to find the answers somewhere in the middle distance, far away from the here and now. The problem was, Gabriel never seemed to know what the questions James was seeking answers for actually _were._

                  “Hellooo, earth to Jamie, do you copy?  Do you read, Mr. Spock?” Gabriel twisted his voice into a close approximation of an old, crackly, radio. 

                  “Yes. Although I am not sure exactly what you want me to copy,” James said archly. 

                  “Aaand, we’re back,” Gabrial teased, secretly relieved that his cousin had drifted back down to earth. 

                  “Celadon blue nonsense aside, I did have a question.  Is the bakery still doing the sugar skulls for Dia De Los Muertos?”

                  “Yeah, sure.  We do everything for Halloween or October-November holidays.  It’s the candy holiday of the year, why the hell not?” 

                  “Good,” James nodded once, then turned, trenchcoat fanning out behind him, moving as if to leave, “That will be all,” he declared as he swept out the door.

                  Gabriel snorted, “And a Happy Halloween to you too, weirdo,” he muttered fondly.

                  “Is it just me or did he seem weirder than normal?” Kevin, who now had a sheet of graph paper stuck to his pastry-creamed hair, asked.

                  “Hmm,” Gabriel hummed thoughtfully to himself, breaking it off suddenly and chucking a cupcake at Kevin, “Think fast!” 

                  Kevin yelped and just barely managed to catch it. 

                  Gabriel shook his head and tsked in the back of his throat. “With reflexes like that you’ll never survive Battle-History.”

                  Kevin narrowed his eyes irritably at him and took a big bite out of the cupcake just to spite Gabriel. 

                  The older man laughed, long and hard.  “That’s the spirit of Halloween, right there!”

…

                  Claire looked up to see Castiel, trenchcoated as always, sweep into the bookshop. “Hey, dad,” she greeted him, reminding him in their little code that she had friends over. 

                  “Hi Mr. Novak,” Ben Braedon (although often people called him Ben Hendrickson after his stepfather) called politely. 

                  “Wassup, James?” Krissy, Claire’s best friend since first grade (even then she hadn’t bothered to call Castiel ‘Mr. Novak’) gave an ironic little salute from where she had propped her feet up on the table strewn with the teens’ textbooks. Claire watched, suppressing the urge to giggle as Castiel smoothly removed Krissy’s combat boots from the polished wood surface as he glided past. 

                  “Hello, children.  Having a ceil day, are you?”

                  Ben tossed an inquisitive look in Claire’s direction. “It’s a type of blue,” she quietly whispered to him.  Not quietly enough, apparently.  For a man who was as tone-deaf as they came, if a butterfly flapped its wings across the room, Castiel would hear it. 

                  “What do they teach you lot these days?” he asked, head tipped slightly to the side, looking curious and disappointed in the art requirements of the Orcastle School District. 

                  “Sobre la celebración de Día de los Muertos en México y Sudamérica,” Krissy groaned, dropping her book on her face and moving to put her feet back on the table. Castiel blocked their path with a box of books.   She lifted the textbook from her face and narrowed her eyes at him.  He gave her a tiny, wry smirk.  Two points adults, none teenage invaders. 

                  “Yes, I asked Gabriel and he said that he was making sugar skulls for Halloween. I’ll take some after they’re finished.”

                  “You know, you could pay for them like a normal person,” Claire teased.

                  “Or I could stay interesting,” Castiel raised his eyebrows, slipping his reading glasses onto his face as he slid behind the front desk.

                  “Always an option,” Claire grinned and warmth filled her chest when her uncle grinned back.  All this ‘Day of the Dead’ celebration nonsense in Spanish class seemed to be getting him down.

                  “Okay, so we’ve got sugar-skulls, that takes care of the food part of the project,” Ben began strategizing, “What’s next?” 

                  “I’ve got history,” Krissy sounded less than enthused.

                  “Are you sure?” Claire knew how much her friend hated the tedious bookish parts of projects, and life in general.

                  “Psh, yeah.  I’ve got this, I’ll throw together a kickass powerpoint, they’ll never know it was last-minute.”

                  “You fill us with confidence,” Claire said dryly.  Ben snorted with laughter in the background.

                  “Hey, have I ever let you down?” 

                  “No,” they chorused wryly. 

                  “Then follow your commander, troops,” Krissy teased smugly.

                  “Ay, ay, captain,” Claire and Ben saluted ironically, Ben catching Claire’s eyes and pulling a face.  She giggled and that was it, all three dissolved into hilarity.  Claire thought she might have caught the sound of Castiel chuckling quietly somewhere in the depths of the shop. 

                  Eventually the trio sobered and refocused.  “Okay, so all that’s left is that altar-thing.” 

                  Claire sighed, “I guess I’ll do it, since Ben’s already doing the folklore.”

                  “Like it would be fair letting _you_ do the folklore,” Krissy elbowed Claire gently, “You _live_ in a bookstore full of weird old books. It’d take you like five seconds to finish it.” 

                  Claire elbowed Krissy back, “Fine, fine, I’ll actually put forth _effort._ ” She rolled her eyes comically, “But you had better pay me in cookies.” 

                  “Do I look like a girl scout?” Krissy squeaked.

                  “Don’t lie Kris, we all know about Brownies,” Ben grinned wickedly.

                  “And Juniors!” Claire chimed in. 

                  “And what the hell comes after Juniors, cuz I’m pretty sure you’re still going to troop meetings…” Ben trailed off with a smug grin.

                  “Fine, I’m a girl scout!  But I’m only in it for the cookies!” 

                  _“Sure,_ ” Ben and Claire stretched out the word as long as possible. 

                  “Shut up, both of you!” 

…

                  Castiel was content to work in silence and just absorb the cheery sounds of teenage life in the middle of the store.  Hours passed, hours in which little homework but a lot of fun was accomplished. It made Castiel think of when he and Jimmy were ten and the time they were living at Uncle Chuck and Aunt Becky’s house.  That had been a good time, a pure time.  A time when they were free of the insanity that was their real home and could pretend that they were Gabriel’s brothers instead of Lucifer, Raphael, and Zachariah’s. A time when they could pretend that their father was around and their mother wasn’t…whatever the hell she was. It had been a good time, a good world, those few sun-drenched months.  But as life had taught Castiel, most good things came to an end. And that time, like everything else, ended. 

                  Castiel was determined that Claire’s sun-drenched time would not end like his did. She would have the life he and her father had never had.  It didn’t matter what it took. 

                  Castiel was so absorbed in his own meandering thoughts he barely registered when Krissy and Ben’s parents came to pick them up.  Krissy’s boisterous, “See ya!” and Ben’s polite, “Bye Mr. Novak” slipped through his awareness like shining fish in a dark pond. But at five o’clock sharp the bell jangled discordantly as the eighth graders left for home and Claire flipped the sign from ‘OPEN’ to ‘CLOSED’. 

                  Castiel might have drifted along in a fog of thought and memory if two things did not happen to shock him out of his reverie and dump him sharply back into reality.  The first was Claire hopping up to sit on the counter, staring out at the store and saying, ever-so-non-chalantly: “So, is my mother dead or just MIA?”

                  The second thing was the bell (Castiel really, really hated that damn thing) jangling one more time as Dean Winchester shouldered his way into the store.  “Hey, J-.”

…

                  Dean was not expecting to open ‘Beehive Books’ door to _that_ conversation.  Admittedly, he and Sam had both speculated on where she was/what had happened to Claire’s mother.  But they had never really tried to find out.  They could have asked Gabriel, they could have asked Claire or J themselves. Hell, they probably could have _googled_ James Novak and found everything they needed.  But they didn’t. Because they knew what it was to lose a parent, and really it wasn’t any of their business. And if Winchesters knew anything, it was to stay out of other families’ business. 

                  So Dean really wasn’t expected this particular festival of awkward when he stepped into the store, leading with his customary “Hey, J” only to hear Claire say: “So, is my mother dead or just MIA?”.

                  Any other words Dean might have spoken died on his lips, crumbling and fluttering away like so many dried leaves.  There was a moment of silence as the three people in the room regarded each other, gazes measured, attitudes ranging from completely relaxed to excessively tense. 

                  “I can leave…” Dean mentioned, feeling like this possibility needed to be mentioned before this got any more awkward. 

                  “No, it’s fine,” J assured him, blue eyes looking even more tired than usual.

                  Dean shifted uncomfortably. 

                  “Sit,” J commanded, not even looking at Dean, but apparently sensing the tension, “If you get any tenser, you will hurt yourself.  And what would Sam say to that,” a dry glance in Dean’s direction out of the corner of a blue eye. 

                  At a loss for what else to do, Dean sat in the nearest chair.

                  J redirected his attention to Claire.  “You mother is not dead, although I am hardly the first person anyone would call should that come to pass.  I’m sure she’s off being unpleasantly neon around equally unpleasantly neon people somewhere far away.” 

                  “Okay. So I can’t use her for this altar thing for Day of the Dead?” 

                  “Not to my knowledge, no.” 

                  Claire huffed a sigh.  “I wonder where she is, what she’s doing.”

                  Dean stood up, “You know what, if this is going to turn into some sort of deep, family-bonding moment, I’ll just leave and come back later, that’s completely _fine._ I don’t mind.” 

                  “Sit back down, Dean,” J told him, tone the same as that of a teacher addressing a particularly  exasperating, yet endearing student. 

                  Dean sat back down. 

                  “Don’t worry about her, Claire,” J told her, eyes serious as they stared into hers, “She’s not worth it.  Put more interesting things in your brain, your brain cells will thank you.”

                  “You are such an indigo person,” Claire mused. 

                  J laughed, “Am I?  Good, I’ve been working on that.” He turned his attention away from Claire, back to Dean. “Mr. Winchester, you’re next. You look like a terrible, bilious yellow sitting there.  It’s dreadful. Please change the subject immediately.”

                  “Is that an insult…?” Dean asked, perplexed. 

                  “Take it as you will,” J offered cryptically. 

                  Dean shook his head, “Whatever, man.  I _was_ sent on behalf of Sammy, to invite you guys to this Halloween-party/lets-give-candy-to-tricker-treaters-and-dress-up-because-we-obviously-aren’t-responsible-adults thing he’s throwing.” 

                  “That sounds like fun!” Claire encouraged J, who was obviously on the fence, “Come on, you never have any fun with real people!” 

                  J gave her one of his slow, laser-eyed stares. 

                  “Customers are dollar signs, not real people,” Claire informed him, “ And books don’t count either. Go, dress up, hang out with the grown-ups and get interesting!”

                  “I am perfectly interesting. I am _fascinating.”_

                  “Go be fascinating with Dean and Sam and Uncle Gabe!” Claire protested.

                  “Dude, it’s not a big deal, we’re just drinking beer and handing out candy and wearing stupid costumes so we can reminisce about when we were cool enough to pull off ‘Spiderman’ and cash in on trick-or-treating.  You should come.  Also, fair warning, Gabriel threatened to kidnap you if you didn’t show up.   So come or wake up in an abandoned warehouse somewhere, listening to Gabe call for your ransom.”

                  J gave a gentle sigh so infused with long-suffering world-weariness Dean was sure it had a physical presence on some plain of reality. “Very well, I will come.”

                  Dean almost hugged him.  He didn’t cuz that would be weird and Dean was not the hugging type. But it was a close thing. Obviously all this little-kid-esque Halloween spirit was getting to him.  Instead he clapped J on the shoulder and gave him a gruff, “See you there.”

                  J muttered something that sounded suspiciously like more color-coded grumbling but Dean elected to ignore it.  The taller man ruffled the bookstore owner’s untidy dark hair, “Admit it, you’re excited.” 

                  The next bout of grumbling was wordless but just as disgruntled. Like a peevish cat, J shrugged off Dean’s hand and stepped away, gathering his personal possessions for the trek up the rickety stairs back to the apartments above the storefronts. Dean and Claire exchanged an amused smirk and trailed after him. 

                  “You two are conspiring, I can sense it,” J informed them, not bothering to look back. 

                  “Of course we are,” Claire replied easily, “How else am I going to eventually overthrow you?” 

                  J snorted and Dean caught sight of the barest hint of a smile curling across the other man’s face. 

                  “I suppose you and Sam will be using my kitchen again?” J asked.

                  The sudden change in topic momentarily threw Dean, but he recovered with grace, “Yeah, I guess.  Neither of our places have full kitchens.  Thank you, sadistic architects.” 

                  “It’s hardly my fault that the apartment next door to Sam’s was split off from the original without retaining a fully functioning kitchen. Or that you chose to move into it.”

                  Dean shrugged, “It was cheap.  And I can always steal your kitchen.  It’s not like you’re not getting anything out of it.” 

                  Claire interjected before J could speak, “On behalf of all members of the Novak family, I formally thank you, Dean Winchester, for releasing us for the cruel torment of my father’s cooking.  This way we won’t all die of food poisoning before spring.”

                  “We were perfectly fine for years,” J huffed. 

                  Claire sighed, speaking out of the corner of her mouth to Dean, “Let’s just say his cooking involves a bit too much experimenting and a little less _becoming edible._ There are such things as cooks who are _too_ creative.”

                  Dean and Claire’s teasing laughter drowned out J’s indignant response.

…

                  Halloween dawned, a crisp, chill Sunday.  The sort of day that began with sharp light and dissolved into thick, velvet twilight which was inevitably consumed by the hungry darkness of night. Children whined about having to go to bed early for school the next day.  Kevin Tran stressed about finishing the catapult project by Monday. Gabriel was on a sugar high by nine am. Dean graded papers and wondered how his students were doing with their catapults.  Sam bought some last minute candy and managed to get in a surprisingly heated argument with the automated check-out machine at the grocery store. Sam did not win the argument. But he kicked the machine’s ass as kick-boxing. 

                  Castiel had been awake since two am.  He looked it, but people were so used to his harried, distracted, look-at-me-I’m stressed appearance by now that the dark circles beneath his blue eyes barely registered with the general populace.  Gabriel treated the problem with an extra syrupy macchiato. Castiel left it on Dean’s doorstep with a note. 

_I don’t want this.  Drink it for me so Gabriel won’t get his feelings hurt._

                  Dean did not appreciate the gift.  But he did appreciate the opportunity it presented.  Gently removing the original note, Dean wrote one of his own and dropped the frou-frou almost-coffee off on Sam’s doorstep. The new note read like this:

_If you step in this, I win._

_Happy Halloween._

_-Your Favorite Brother (don’t tell Adam I said that)_

                  Sam didn’t step in it, but it was a very close thing. Irritated, he picked it up, glared at it a bit, put it back down, contemplated what to do with it, and picked it up again.  Finally, Sam decided that it was Halloween and he was allowed to sink to Dean’s level. Just this once. He wrote a new note and dropped the coffee off on the Novak doorstep.  Castiel opened his door to get the newspaper and found the wandering macchiato waiting for him.  With a note attached.

_If you see my brother, dump this on his head._

_Or something._

_Happy Halloween._

_\- Sam, The Better Winchester_

                  Amused, Castiel drew a face on the cup and dropped it off on Dean’s doorstep one more time.  There was no note, just a cartoon frowny face.  Dean felt mildy guilty when he opened the door to see the cup sitting there, looking sad and lonely.

                  The cup made a few more journeys through the building that day. The most memorable being when Sam and Claire, in a fit of mischievousness, left the frowny-face cup sitting atop Kevin’s open textbooks in the back room of the bakery while the high schooler was working the front counter.  Claire recorded Kevin’s shriek on her phone for later teasing. 

                  Gabriel eventually confiscated the cup when it was left in the bakery for too long, but everyone knew that it would eventually resurface. Gabriel had _plans_ for the traveling cup. 

                  Halloween was almost a relaxed, frivolous sort of day.  Almost.  Except for right now, when Castiel and Claire sat shoulder-to-shoulder in their living room, photographs spread out all around them like ripples in a pond.

                  “I don’t know what to do for this altar thing,” Claire sighed, “It’s supposed to reflect the spirit of the holiday, but also have some sort of personal touch.” She dropped her chin to her fist, elbow propped up on her knee, “Day of the Dead is supposed to be a celebration of the lives of our dead relatives and a day to honor their memories.  The altar’s supposed to have pictures of the dead and things they liked and some other, traditional stuff.” 

                  Castiel said nothing, Claire could see his thoughts sliding beneath the still surface of his eyes.  She kept talking, not knowing what else to do.  “We’ve got the flowers and sugar skulls and candles and other traditional stuff. Krissy gave me a picture of her dead dog and Ben had a photo of his great-grandfather.  But what do I put on here?” she sighed, small shoulders rolling beneath her t-shirt, “I was kind of hoping you could tell me my mother was dead, so I could use her.” 

                  Castiel didn’t say anything, but he looked at her.  Really _looked_ at her, with those huge ice-blue eyes that knew everything in a single glance and Claire felt a surge of guilt.  She sighed, “I know it’s wrong of me to hope for that, but… I don’t remember her. And she _left me,_ and there’s no real _feeling_ attached to her memory.  It was different when I was little and was still waiting for her to come back, but now? Nah.  I’d rather she was dead so I could put up her photo and forget about her instead of still having this tiny, stupid hope that eventually she’ll figure out she still wants me and comes back.  Even though I know she never will.  How horrible is that?” Claire shuddered.  “Am I a bad person?” she asked; voice quiet and small.

                  Castiel gently put an arm around her shoulders.  “No.  You will never be a bad person, Claire.  You don’t know how.”  

                  Claire leaned into his shoulder a little bit. She felt the rumble of words brewing in his chest before he spoke them. 

                  “My mother has been in a mental hospital for over a decade. I understand what you mean by wanting it to end so you can finally forget.” 

                  Claire nodded, her hair scratching faintly against the cloth of his ratty hoody. Today was one of the few days of the week her uncle didn’t wear dress clothes.  The hoody was one of the ones he would wear when he was painting. Claire could smell the silky oils and tangy paint thinner that had soaked into the thick cloth over the years. It was comforting.

                  “I know,” she replied to his statement, “I guess I didn’t think about it that way.”  It was true, Claire never really gave her crazy grandmother much thought.  She had always known about the woman, that she was in a mental hospital. That she was unlikely to ever come out. But it had never really seemed important or even current to Claire.  The only family that had really mattered to the girl over the past eight years had been Castiel and Gabe.  And that was all she had really needed. 

                  Castiel gave her arm a gentle squeeze before withdrawing his. “You shouldn’t have to, princess. Now, about this altar.”

                  They put everything together.  The flowers (fake), the candles (battery-powered, apparently fire hazards were a big no-no in the public school system), Claire’s friends’ photos and the sugar skulls. Finally Claire rocked back on her heels and eyed her masterpiece.  “Good enough. I guess I won’t have anyone on there-.”

                  Castiel cut her off.  He had wandered away into his office sometime while she had been immersed in the world of Spanish-project-creation.  He managed to slip through her awareness until he was standing beside her and she was actively wondering how the heck he had gotten there. Castiel did not speak, his face was even more distant and slightly distracted than usual, but his movements were sure and steady.  He reached out to the altar and gently placed a single photo beside those of Ben’s great-grandfather and Krissy’s beloved dog.  Claire leaned forward, drawn in and held by the lure of the mysterious photo. Castiel lifted his hand, freeing the slice of photo paper to rest against the same plastic candle the other two occupied.

                  It was a candid shot of two young men, one in a University sweatshirt and the other in a familiar (though significantly newer when the picture was taken) trenchcoat.  A huge fountain frothed in the background, the sweatshirt-wearing man had jumped up on the lip of the fountain and was striking some sort of pose.  The trenchcoated one was slightly turned away, grinning with subtle wickedness as he offhandedly pushed the other into the water. Sunlight dappled identical heads of dark hair, catching on matching blue eyes, refracting sapphire hues. Two men, both alike in everything, in fair university where we lay our scene.  The parody of the famous _Romeo and Juliet_ opening line flashed through Claire’s head as she stared at the picture.

                  As always, she could instantly tell them apart.  And she didn’t even need the trenchcoat to identify Castiel.

                  “Hi, Dad,” she murmured to the younger version of Jimmy, watching that frozen second where he balanced on the fountain’s edge. 

                  Castiel briefly rested a hand on her head before turning away. “The Novak family should be represented, don’t you think?” he said, already walking down the hall.

                  “Yeah,” Claire grinned softly. 

…

                  “Not funny, Dean,” Sam grumbled as his brother shoved devil horns on his head.

                  “Oh, come on, it’s hilarious.” 

                  “Dean.”

                  “Fun fact: a bunch of historians think Jack the Ripper was a doctor.”

                  “ _Dean._ ”

                  “Mild-mannered doc by day, killer by night!” 

                  “Dean, for the last time, I did not sell my soul to pay for med school. That joke so old, I think it has grandchildren.” 

                  Dean snorted, satisfied that Sam was not going to manage to dislodge the devil horns, and backed away, admiring his handiwork.  “The suit weirdly matches, bro,” he said.  

                  Sam rolled his eyes and threw Dean a bitch-face.  “I was not _planning_ on a demonic Halloween.” 

                  “No, no you weren’t if that all-white atrocity is any evidence,” a new voice assessed from the doorway, “White on white, Sammykins? Really?  You look like my psycho cousin.  And not the fun psycho next door.  No, I mean the one whose parents actually _named after the devil._ ” 

                  Dean ran his eyes over Gabriel, and his truly ridiculous costume. “Loki?  Really?” 

                  “God of mischief and totally the most badass character in the Avengers? He’s just like me but not as sexy!”

                  “Uh-huh, shorty.  You keep telling yourself that,” Dean said skeptically. 

                  “Pssh, you’re one to talk, Dean-o.  You’re wearing _chaps._ ”

                  “The wild west will always be badass, midget.” 

                  Gabriel snorted derisively.  “Yeah, yeah, John Wayne.” 

                  “Aren’t you supposed to be in your bakery shelling out candy to little trick-or-treaters?” Dean asked. 

                  “I’m making a brief pit-stop to check on you people and make sure you were suitably prepared for the greatness of my _favorite_ candy-centric holiday.” 

                  “Yeah, we need to get the clinic set up for handing out candy, don’t we?” Dean glanced at his brother.  Sam nodded. Since their apartments all had interior doors they had decided to hand out candy street-side through Sam’s clinic doors. All the people living upstairs had agreed to dress up for the event.  And show up. Speaking of which, where was…?

                  “Anyone seen James?” Sam asked. 

                  Dean shrugged, “Not since this morning.” 

                  “Me too, Samsquatch,” Gabe offered without being asked.

                  Sam sighed, “I’ll go get the wandering Novaks, you guys get set up.”

                  Dean opened his mouth as if ready to suggest he be the one to go collect James and Claire, realized that would sound mildly ridiculous when Sam was already half-way out the door, and shut his jaw with a faint click. Shrugging and grumbling to himself, Dean grabbed a heavy bag of candy in each fist and hauled them out the door.        

                  Gabriel snickered at the oddities of Winchester-flavored-humanity. Sam just rolled his eyes.

…

                  One knock on the door was enough to send it swinging inward. Apparently James hadn’t bothered to lock or completely close the front door.  Trying not to feel like a burglar, Sam slunk into the apartment, scanning the empty living room for signs of life.  The room was cluttered as usual.  Books perched on every surface, teetering in stacks, actively defying the laws of gravity and reality as they held their stacked poses.  Notebooks, pens, pencils, and the occasional paintbrush peppered the furniture and occasionally the floor.  Splashes of color stained the room in unexpected places, like a small, bright slash of yellow paint across the floor, or a stipe of cobalt blue curling around a door frame.  It was a place that was very obviously someone’s _home._

                  Sam liked it.  But what he didn’t like was the fact that he was standing in the middle of his neighbor’s living/dining/kinda-opens-off-into-the-kitchen room, with no neighbor in sight, very awkward and very uninvited.  Sam moved forward, possibly to call for or look for James or Claire (his plan was somewhat less than perfectly clear), when something new caught his eye. An altar, like those used in Mexico for Day of the Dead celebrations.  Huh, Claire must be doing some sort of project. 

                  Not really knowing why, Sam knelt down and eyed the structure, gaze roving over the flowers and candles and finally catching on the photos. One of them caught and held his eyes. Two men, two _identical_ me, goofing off in front of a fountain. Two men who both had James Novak’s face.

                  “Dad’s twin,” a young female voice explained beside him. Sam nearly jumped out of his skin.

                  “What-?! Oh, hi Claire.” 

                  Claire grinned.  She was planning on going trick-or-treating with a pack of friends and she looked the part. Her shirt was banded with gold and back horizontal stripes, her black cargo pants had gold sashes tied around the thighs and ankles.  Gold, glittery eyeshadow  swept her eyes up, making them seem larger, giving her a brand of mystery.  Her lips were painted black and a pair of gauzy insect’s wings drifted out from her shoulders.  A small silver tiara peeked out from her blond hair. 

                  “Hey Sam, I like the investment banker/devil thing you’ve got going on. Very current-events,” Claire grinned, “Can you guess what I am?”

                  Sam furrowed his brow, taking in all elements of the costume. “Queen bee?” he hazarded a guess.

                  “You are correct, sir!” she pointed at him dramatically.

                  Sam grinned at her, but couldn’t help but glance at the altar once more, at the family left behind. 

                  Claire touched his arm gently, “He’s not with us.  Dad’s twin.  Try not to talk about it too much.”

                  Sam gave her a gentle, reassuring (he hoped) smile.  “Not one word, scout’s honor.” 

                  “Secrets, how very amethyst of you, let’s go, we’ll be late if we keep letting Mr. Winchester be distracting,” James chided the both of them as he swept through the room.  He was dressed in his usual clothes.  Trenchcoat and all.

                  Sam groaned, “You didn’t dress up, did you?  Dean’s gonna be pissed.  You’re in troooouuuubbbbleee,” he stretched out the last two words for emphasis.

                  James laughed and whipped out a fake ID, “FBI, drop it.”

                  Sam snorted and Claire snickered.  It was going to be an odd night. 

…

                  A few hours later most of the trick-or-treaters had gone home and Claire had called to tell Castiel that she would be staying over at Krissy’s house for the night.  The adults sprawled into the chairs, propping their feet up and leaning on any available surface, munching candy. 

                  Gabe gave a slow, lazy sort of grin, “Halloween…best candy holiday of the year!”

                  “What about Easter?” Sam yawned. 

                  Gabe snorted, “I had a string of great-uncles who were all priests. Easter was rather…sermony.”

                  “Valentine’s Day?” Dean offered, despite the fact that his lip curled of its’ own accord at the mention of the sappy holiday. 

                  “You mean get drunk and feel lonely day?” Gabe sarcastically clarified.

                  “Or get drunk and get naked day…” Castiel mused. 

                  “We do not speak of Valentine’s of ’05,” Gabe shuddered.

                  “No one needed to see that much of Cousin Corey…ever.” Castiel groaned.

                  “I wanted to burn my eyes out,” Gabe intoned solemnly.

                  “And then he started _hugging_ people.” This warranted a full-body shudder.

                  “Oh god, the memories, the trauma is too much!” Gabriel squeaked.

                  All four of them laughed so hard the cried.  Even Gabriel and Castiel, who, in their defense, could probably claim to be truly horrified at the memory of the 2005 Valentine’s Day incident. Halloween was a good day. Pure and unscarred and unscorched. Perfect. 


	9. The Artist Formerly Known as Castiel

**Chapter 7: The Artist Formerly Known as Castiel**

                  Castiel was a creature of movement.  His entire self seemed to burn with a barely contained force. A profound energy source that never ran dry.  Castiel was always the sort of person who would rather crash and blaze out than slowly fade away into nothing.  This used to manifest in odd ways when Claire was younger.  She remembered dusky Friday nights when they would stay awake until midnight playing game after game of Sorry.  Castiel would put her to bed and she would listen to him move and breathe and exist out there in the wilderness of the apartment after midnight. Claire would fall asleep soothed by the lullaby of Castiel’s restless soul. 

                  Some Saturday mornings Claire would be awakened by the sound of Castiel playing electric ukulele (badly, tone-deafness does not translate well into the musical arts).  Somehow he always knew when she was well and truly up, because as soon as her feet hit the floor he would be sticking his head through her doorway, hair wild, trenchcoat thrown around his shoulders.  “Get your clothes and grab some toast, we’re going on an Adventure,” he would tell her. And Claire would get dressed and grab some toast and they would be off to catch the bus to some new and strange destination. 

                  Their day-trips were always ‘Adventures’ with Castiel. Adventures with a capitalized ‘A’. Claire fancied that you could hear it in the way Castiel said the word, with just the right amount of pop on the vowel. Even if the day was spent doing nothing but taking the bus to Portland and playing hours of hide-and-seek in Powell’s Books or visiting this odd landmark (yes, indeed, there was a world’s largest ball of twine, Claire knew from personal experience) or that ancient forest, everything was new and different and _adventurous_ because they made it that way. 

                  Claire loved Castiel’s restless soul and she loved their Adventures. When Gabriel first found out about their sporadic day-trips to odd places to do mundane things (or mundane places to do odd things, it always depended on Castiel’s mood) and began tagging along, Claire was a little bit jealous.  But Gabriel added a new dimension to their travels that hadn’t been there before.  He threw in the missing pinch of madcap dare-devilry.  Claire and Castiel’s Adventures soon expanded to be Claire, Castiel _and_ Gabriel’s Adventures. 

                  Claire never forgot the first time she told Castiel that she couldn’t do an Adventure today, she had too much homework.  He didn’t look wounded or hurt.  There were no dramatics.  What Claire saw in his clear blue eyes was infinitely worse.  She saw nothing.  For the first time in years Claire saw absolutely nothing when she searched his face for his reaction.  Castiel had successfully shut her out and it _hurt._ After that he wished her good luck, told her to come to him if she needed any help, and asked her to please excuse him as he needed to open the store for the day if they were not going to be going anywhere. 

                  That was when she was in seventh grade.  The Adventures hadn’t stopped after that, but they had changed. Their occasional spontaneous Saturday excursions became more scheduled.  Their trips were fewer and farther between.  And Claire missed them, missed them with the open-hearted sadness of a child who has just begun to realize that she is growing up.

                  That nostalgic longing for a sweeter, more Adventurous time must have called forth something in Castiel.  Or perhaps he was just restless once more.  Whatever the reason, now, on a clear November Friday, a couple of weeks after Halloween with Gabriel and the Winchesters, Claire awoke to the sound of the world’s most intolerable electric ukulele playing. 

                  “Get your clothes and grab some toast, we’re going on an Adventure!” Castiel’s voice rang out from the kitchen. 

                  Claire half groaned, half laughed into her pillow.  It was an in-service day at her school.  Of course Castiel would do something weird. The reason for the in-service itself was weird to begin with.  Apparently some of the kids in fourth hour biology made the mistake of releasing all of the rats they were supposed to only be observing (and most certainly _not_ interacting with). The rodents may have been born and bred for captivity but they could run if they wanted to.  A long story short, Claire’s middle school was closed this fine November Friday for pest control. 

                  The high school, well out of the range of the runaway rodents, was in session today.  Claire glanced at her clock. Nine o’clock.  Good, Dean would be at work and wouldn’t have had to listen to the _enchanting_ sound of Castiel’s questionable ukulele playing filtering through the wall between their apartments. 

                  Claire ran her fingers through her snarled mess of blonde hair.   “Where are we going?” she yawned.

                  She could almost _hear_ Castiel’s smile floating toward her from the kitchen.  “Wherever we want.” 

                  Claire grinned, standing up and wandering into the kitchen, “Does that mean it’s my turn to pick?”

                  Castiel, fully dressed, smiled gently at her over the rim of his coffee mug. Steam wafted up from the thick, dark, sludge he drank. Claire stepped up to the counter, poured herself a mug and took a deep swig.  She smirked at the burning after-taste.  Dark, thick and strong enough to kill your average small mammal, Castiel’s dreadful coffee was as much home to her as the apartment itself.

                  “What about a museum?” Claire suggested, “We haven’t been someplace normal in a while.” 

                  Castiel cocked his head to the side, “Interesting.  You don’t typically choose ‘lunacy in a less-than-exotic-locale’. You’re more of a ‘the-location-itself-is-lunacy’ sort of girl.” 

                  Claire laughed.  “It’s an Adventure, anything can happen.” 

                  “That’s my girl.” 

                  “Let me go grab some real clothes and we can grab Gabe and some muffins for the road.” 

                  Castiel nodded smoothly and took another deep draught of his foul coffee.

…

                  **Meanwhile…**

                  Dean Winchester hated field trips.  He hated joint field trips even more.  It wasn’t bad enough that he was supervising a bus full of his Advanced History students, no, school tradition dictated that this particular field trip was taken every year with the Advanced Art students as a kind of Art-History lesson. So he was stuck in a yellow, metal, bus-shaped hellhole surrounded by high schoolers who all seemed dead set on getting themselves killed in a moving vehicle in the most creative (and/or stupid) ways possible. 

                  “Remind me, what exactly am I getting out of agreeing to chaperone this _delightful_ experience?” Sam snarked from the seat beside Dean. 

                  “My undying brotherly loyalty?” Dean offered weakly.

                  Sam threw a bitch-face at him and worked on picking gum out of his hair. Where the flying gum had come from would remain a mystery for the rest of time, but Dean’s money was on the scrawny kid in the back.  The boy had aim where he lacked athleticism. 

                  “It could be worse…” Dean offered. 

                  Sam snorted and pulled a face when he finally managed to separate the gum from his auburn-brown locks.  “Today is going to be a long day,” he said resignedly. 

                  Dean had no choice but to agree.

…

                  “Uncle Gabe, you’re going to get us thrown out again,” Claire reminded him.

                  “Pssh, I do what I want, bitches!” 

                  Several old ladies shot him scandalized looks and a parent or two covered a young child’s ears.  Several people were shooting Castiel chastising glances.  The sort of oh-so-casual looks that clearly said: ‘ _control your children, we are judging you and all your life choices to date based on the last five seconds of that kid’s behavior.’_ Castiel looked right back at them and gave a helpless little half-shrug as if to say: ‘ _they’re not **my** kids. At least the short adult climbing that unfortunately famous statue is most definitely **not** mine.’ _This, strangely enough, did not appear to be enough to silence or re-direct the negative attention.

                  “Take the picture…now!” Gabe cried from where he stood perched on the back of the marble horse in the museum’s front entrance. 

                  Castiel obediently raised the camera, circling the horse and snapping shots of Gabriel’s antics from all angles before turning the camera lens on the shocked and appalled bystanders.  Castiel took no small amount of joy in capturing their slack features, immortalizing their consternation in a collection of humming pixels.

                  “That will be all for now, ladies and gentlemen!” Gabriel declared from the horse’s pedestal, having clambered down in the interim.  The short man bowed extravagantly, golden brown hair flopping every which way.  “We’ll be here all day! But…catch us if you can!” and with that cheery challenge, Gabriel bolted.

                  Castiel sighed, “I worry about what kind of influence we are on you, young grasshopper,” he said to Claire.

                  She shrugged, looking up at him, “Does this mean we’re playing hide and seek?”

                  “It would appear so.” 

                  “Then catch me if you can!”  and with that, she was off, gone the way of her ‘uncle’ Gabriel. 

                  Castiel shook his head at his niece and cousin’s behavior. “Why am _I_ ‘it’?” he muttered. 

…

                  “Ok, new game, every time he says ‘government’ and ‘conspiracy’ in the same sentence, we eat a skittle,” Dean heard one of his students mutter to an art student as Mr. Deveroux, Orcastle High’s art teacher, droned on.

                  “How is this _educational?_ ” Kevin Tran grumbled off to Dean’s left, apparently perturbed that he wasn’t getting the full instructional package. 

                  “Shut up and absorb some culture,” Mr. Deveroux’s student teacher muttered at him. 

                  Kevin continued to mumble under his breath, but none of it was distinguishable. Dean smiled fondly at the thought of the little nerd.  He was just like Sammy at that age.  Hell, he was just like Sammy _now._

                  “I’m tired of parroting the institution,” Mr. Deveroux had apparently grown bored with the whole ‘educate them about art’ shtick.  “Someone else tell you buggers about the guest exhibit.” He shuffled off, muttered about how he had wanted to teach _computer science, dammit_.

                  There was a moment of silence as everyone stared at everyone else and wondered what the hell happened.  Mr. Deveroux huffed out an irritated grunt, “Well, we’re not getting any younger, someone’d better tell us about this ‘Castiel’ guy.” 

                  More silence.  Dean was actively considering stepping in and lecturing about something, _anything_ , despite the fact that he really didn’t know a freaking thing about the guest exhibit this month.  Luckily, the student teacher, he still hadn’t managed to learn her name, all he knew was she was a student at the local university, he hair was redder than any he had ever seen and she had greeted the art and history classes with a hearty ‘live long and prosper, bitches!’  (that last, profane part had gotten her a chastising glower from the bus driver, but she had just smile sheepishly and sat down), seemed to know what she was doing with this whole ‘teaching art’ thing. 

                  “Ok, so the guest exhibit this month is pretty freaking cool, I’ve gotta say. I came down here on opening weekend just to see it.  This is a traveling collection of art by ‘Castiel’ funded by his family.  The style’s surreal and pretty trippy sometimes. Lots of raw emotion and stuff… ok, I feel awkward lecturing at you guys.  Time to ask questions I know the answers to just to see if you can answer them for me!  Ok, so what do we know about ‘Castiel’?” 

                  Dean was tempted to tune out the Q and A, but knew that if he looked too zoned out, Sammy would bitch-face at him for not being a good example for his students.  So, shooting a short glare at his little brother, Dean put on his best ‘listening face’ and tried not to get too bored. 

                  “No one’s sure if that’s his real name,” a student offered.

                  “Yeah,” the student teacher encouraged. 

                  The student, emboldened, continued, “Most people assume he just went by his first name, like Madonna or Prince or something.  He was super private when he was alive.” 

                  The student teacher, Dean was fairly sure her name was Ms. Bradbury or something, nodded. 

                  “His family was totally screwed up,” someone else contributed to the class discussion, “Like, his dad disappeared, one brother was in prison and his mom was nuts.”  

                  “But no one knows any of that for sure,” someone else hedged.

                  Someone snorted, “Yeah, and no one knows if he was bi or not, everyone still thinks it.” 

                  “Everyone? I’ve never heard of this guy until today…” someone interjected. 

                  Before the group could collapse into total anarchy, the student teacher re-took charge.  “A few more little facts for you guys before I let you loose in the gallery.  One, ‘Castiel’ did all of the original cover art for the AngelFall books by Emmanuel Grace.  And two, he had an identical twin.  Yep, rumor has it that the two paintings everyone calls his ‘self-portraits’ are actually of his twin.  Weird, right? Anyway, go forth and don’t touch anything, munchkins!” the student teacher (Dean wondered if he could get away with asking her what her name is without sounding like a jerk who hadn’t bothered to remember it) waved them all forward, allowing the students to spill into the gallery.  Mr. Deveroux wandered off, muttering about security cameras and the government monitoring his actions.  It would appear that the art class was officially abandoned to the tender care of the student teacher, Dean, and Sam. 

                  They were all doomed. 

…

                  Claire was surprised to find herself in a gallery full of her uncle’s work. Fleeing from her ‘seeking’ family members (Castiel had found Gabriel easily and recruited him to search for Claire) she had opened the door to ‘guest exhibit’ and found herself tumbling into a painted realm full of color and _Castiel._ She didn’t need to read the nameplates beside the paintings to know whose hand had applied these careful, loving, hating, living, _feeling_ brushstrokes to dozens of canvases. 

                  It was a decidedly mauve feeling.  Like Alice dropping through the rabbit hole, Claire found herself in a world both strangely identical to hers and yet so completely different that she couldn’t quite reconcile any part of it.  She scanned the frames all around her.  So this was Castiel before the fire. 

                  Wow.

                  She hadn’t realized…

                  She hadn’t realized a lot of things. 

                  One, the family had kept far more of his old paintings than she had thought they did. 

                  Two, they were _here._

                  Three…there was so much she didn’t know. 

                  Walking through that forest of painted panels, Claire wondered at the depth of imagination and emotion her usually stoic uncle had splashed across the tiny artificial worlds presented by the canvases.  At the other end of the hall she could hear a woman lecturing what must be a high school class on the artist known only as ‘Castiel’. Claire smiled at the rehashing off old familiar knowledge, struggled to recall the time she had spent in his old workshop in the city, and snickered at the comment about everyone thinking he was bi.  _‘It would explain all that ridiculously-expressive staring he and Dean have going on,’_ the irreverent part of her cackled in the back of her mind.  Although that train of thought dumped her off at the realization that Castiel hadn’t actually had a single proper adult relationship since he took her in.  Damn, he must be ten kinds of repressed.  …And this train of thought was getting incredibly creepy and sad. Claire cut it off before she could feel awkward. 

                  Instead she wandered around, stopping and staring at a few choice pieces. One of Castiel’s famous ‘self-portraits’ hung on a wall, an ironically eye-catching placement for one of the few self-portraits of an incredibly private artist.  Heavy in shading and odd lighting angles, most of his form was obscured by a shadow that almost seemed hungry as it rolled across the canvas. He stood with his back to the viewer, torso bare but mostly hidden by the play of light and darkness. Only one shoulder was clearly visible, a pale shoulder blade highlighted by an unseen light.  A dark tattoo sprawled down the visible skin, outlining the constellation Gemini in pinpricks of black and blue.

                  The painted Castiel was glancing over the tattooed shoulder, face backlit and mostly dark, edged with a strange corona.  One blue eye shone out though, and even as nothing more than oils on a canvas those eyes were clear and soul-searching. Cutting and incisive, full to the brim with a clever, leaping intellect that would tug his life hither and yon forever. People often told Claire that she had her father’s eyes.  She didn’t think so. Her eyes were blue, true, but it was her secret hope that someday they would have half the clever wisdom lurking behind them as Castiel’s. 

                  It was a self-portrait that showed none of his features. Anyone could look at it and then not glance twice at the real Castiel as they passed him on the street. But Claire knew that the painting wasn’t of features that could be catalogued and mentally earmarked like noses and teeth and cheekbones.  It was of _Castiel._ One half of a Gemini and the wisest man Claire had ever known.

                  “Jimmy had one too,” a gentle voice spoke beside her, quiet enough that only she would hear. 

                  Claire glance up, unsurprised to see her uncle in this place. “A Gemini tattoo?”

                  Castiel nodded, “It was an indigo day when we got them.  A good color for family.” 

                  Claire grinned up at him, “You always said I was born on an indigo day.”

                  Castiel raised his eyebrows, “Did I?  I’m so very sorry then; I’ve led you to believe that you’re human all these years. Your extraterrestrial parents will be so very disappointed when they come to pick you up in the mothership.”

                  “A pity, that,” Claire smirked, glad for the change in mood.

                  Castiel ruffled her hair.  “I lost Gabriel at the gift shop.  Shall we go collect him and continue exploring?”          

                  “You got it, boss,” Claire chirped. 

…

                  “They have a _salad bar._ A freaking _salad bar._ In a museum cafeteria.  A SALAD BAR!”

                  “Gabriel, I believe we are more than aware of the salad bar’s presence,” his cousin reminded him, scanning the cafe.   

                  Gabriel blinked at James, not comprehending how he could not be as appalled by this as he was.  “A. Salad. Bar.” He repeated dumbly. 

                  “There there, there there,” James, apparently not knowing how to cope with Gabriel’s distress, had decided to just stand there and pat him awkwardly on the shoulder. 

                  Gabriel was gathering his verbal ammunition, ready for an extremely detailed explanation of exactly how and why a salad bar was an abomination when a crouton suddenly collided with his forehead, pinged off his skull and bounced into his mouth.  With a surprised crunch, Gabriel’s teeth came down on the square of bread, turning it to garlic-flavored mush.  Mmm…not quite a kitkat, but at least it got the crunchy carbohydrate bit right.

                  “Claire.”

                  Gabriel honestly couldn’t tell if James’ tone was intended to chastise his child for her misbehavior or congratulate her on her aim. 

                  “Yes, father dear?” Claire asked sweetly. 

                  “Gabriel is not for target practice.  He is fragile and easily undone by leafy green vegetables and their starchy compatriots.” 

                  “I’ll take note,” Claire grinned. 

                  Gabriel decided he had had enough of not being part of the conversation and threw on a mock pout.  “I take issue with all of those statements!”

                  Thwip, crunch.  Another crouton popped off of Gabriel’s forehead and into his mouth.  This one was launched at close range by a grinning James.

                  “Not... _*crunch, crunch*…cool… *crunch, crunch*…bro,”_ Gabe grumped. 

                  James popped a crouton into his own mouth.  He chewed and swallowed, smiling a small, smirky smile as he did so. “Mmm, nutritious.”

                  “I will kill you in your sleep with a twizzler, you just wait.”

                  “I look forward to the new experience,” James deadpanned. Ugh, this guy was no fun at all to threaten. 

                  Gabe scanned the crowds at the cafeteria.  Lots of people…hmm… “Hey, guys, wanna try a little social experiment?” 

                  Claire and James shrugged.  “Sure.”

                  “Okay,” Gabriel grinned wickedly, the cogs turning in his head already.

…

                  Sam Winchester was not sure what exactly what he was supposed to do when a random passerby handed him a crouton and whispered, eyes shifty and restless, “Pass it on”, before bolting.  So, against his better judgment, the doctor held onto it.  Surely there had to be some _reason_ a museum patron he had never seen before was handing him a random salad ingredient.  Right…?

                  Then he realized that he wasn’t the only one carrying around a salad topping. One of Dean’s students was trading a grape tomato for a black olive in the corner.  Another stranger shoved a ball of cheese into Mr. Deveroux’s hands before bolting.  Most of the hand-offs were more subtle, but a handful were so painfully obvious Sam was tempted to take the hander-offers aside and give them tips on how to improve their technique. 

                  Still feeling more than a little flummoxed by the whole experience, Sam searched the room for Dean, hoping his brother had some sort of explanation for the salad-topping Secret Santa going on all around them. Dean was distracted helping a group of students organize a game of life-sized chess on the huge black and white tiles of the museum’s central floor.   And lecturing them about the merits of the attack and defense stratagems of famous generals.  It was ironic, really, considering how charge-in-guns-blazing-instead-of-planning-first Dean was in his personal life, seeing him teaching about historical precedents for this tactic or that strategy was surprising and a bit bizarre. War history really was Dean’s forte.

                  Click.

                  Sam whirled around just in time to catch sight of a camera flash going off nearby.  Eyes widening in surprise, he realized, to his great consternation, that his and Dean’s neighbors appeared have taken up residence in the museum entry hall.

                  Distantly he could hear Gabriel laughing uncontrollably as James’ camera clicked away.  Claire had an iPhone out and was busy videoing the room.  Sam sighed and smiled ruefully.  Why did anything still surprise him with these people?

                  Running a hand through his auburn mane (maybe Dean was right and he did need a haircut…), Sam approached the photo-happy trio.  “Please don’t tell me this is one of your…projects.”

                  “ _Social experiment,_ Sammy-boy. Elementary school children do projects for the science fair.  _We_ do _social experiments_ for the good of society.” 

                  “And how exactly does society benefit from…salatopia?”

                  “ _Sammy-boy._ I would have thought you’d be happy, isn’t this your fondest dream?  A world ruled by salad?!”

                  “No comment at this time.” 

                  “No, no, no, you’ve entered the war-zone Sam-a-lam, there’s no way you’re not playing the game!” 

                  Sam was about to say something, anything, to refute the absurdity of whatever the hell was going on around him, but James cut in. 

                  “This is a social experiment on people’s vulnerability to suggestion and co-dependent relationship with social norms.  So far only a quarter of the people we gave salad toppings and instructions to have thrown away their ‘gifts’.  Approximately a third have simply stood around, hanging onto the items,” he cast a critical eye in the direction of the crouton slowly dissolving in Sam’s sweaty palm.  Sam felt properly criticized. James continued, “A few outliers have eaten the produce, but in the end most have obeyed the command and have passed on their foodstuff.  An the more who obey the directive, the more socially acceptable the directive becomes, therefore the more people obey it and the cycle continues.”

                  “Humans, so charmingly stupid.  Like sheep,” Gabriel sighed indulgently.  Sam felt mildly offended. 

                  He was about to say something heinously unoriginal and yet strangely appropriate as a come-back such as: ‘you do realize _you’re_ human, too?’ when Claire interrupted. 

                  “And they make great photos.” 

                  _Click._

James showed his daughter the picture and she nodded approvingly.  “Show it to Sam, Dad.” 

                  James obliged, extending the camera to Sam with a pleasant smile Sam found a little disconcerting.  The photo displayed was at an odd angle that somehow managed to only exaggerate the absurdity of a grinning Charlie Bradbury (Sam actually remembered the young student teacher’s name) trying to pass a dried apricot off to startled Dean. Sam snickered despite himself. Dean startled looked a bit like a squirrel.  “Dean’s going to be pissed.” 

                  James made a small noise that might have been a snort if he were anyone less than himself.  “Charming. I look forward to it. The argument should be most intriguingly fushia experience.” 

                  Sam, perplexed, and unsure as to what the subtext to that was exactly, and not wanting to open that particular can of worms at this point, simply said, “Well, keep it clean, you two.” 

                  James blinked and tipped his head to the side.  Great, now they were both perplexed.  And Gabriel was laughing.  And Claire had hijacked the camera to shoot for photos of them all looking confused.

                  Sam had the feeling that is ‘school field trip chaperone’ had a job description attached to it, none of this nonsense would be in it.

…

                  The next week new art appeared on the walls of ‘Beehive Books’ and ‘Trick or Treat’.  Bookshop and bakery customers alike were befuddled and amused by what Gabriel and James were calling ‘visual commentaries on human nature and the chaos of the universe’ and what Claire was calling ‘vegetarians gone wild’.  The photos from the museum visit were all shot at intriguing angles and full of strange close-ups and odd focusing tricks.  They were, in a word, fascinating in both subject matter (salad secret santa always being interesting) and technique.  The cousins sold fifteen the first day. 

                  “J.”

                  A page turned.  Blue eyes ate up words with the voracious hunger of one who is never completely still, no matter what his body may appear to be doing. 

                  “ _J._ ”

                  Another page flipped. 

                  “J, don’t make me take your book again.” 

                  Dark eyebrows rose at the chapter’s cliffhanger ending. Fingers lifted, ready to turn the page.

                  “J, I will spoil the ending. Queen Alethea die-.”

                  “Dean, that is hardly playing fair.” 

                  “Neither is including me in your little ‘salad project’.”

                  J huffed out a sigh, bookmarking his page (he never, ever, under pain of death, dog-eared a page, Dean had received at least two lectures on the evils of doing such a thing to a book, even a cheapo paperback), and turned his full attention and the frighteningly blue eyes that went with it, on Dean. “Your expression was perfect; the collection would be incomplete without it.” 

                  “I want the picture off your walls.  I look like a stoned squirrel.”

                  “Would you like to make an offer on the art piece in question? I will warn you, though, Dr. Winchester has already placed a rather hefty bid on it.”

                  J was tormenting him, Dean could tell.  And enjoying it.  It was there in that placid expression, a tiny spark of glee dancing in the very back of blue eyes.

                  “I will pay whatever you want, J.  As long as it’s not the Impala.  Or my mix tapes.  Or pie. Unless I can eat the pie too… ”

                  “This is not extortion, Dean, try not to be so feldgrau. That shade of green does not suit you.” There was a pause in which Dean may or may not have engaged in and subsequently lost a minor staring contest with the bookseller. 

                  Finally he sighed, “Ok, J, ok.  Whatever you want.  Keep the damn photo and sell it to Sammy if it makes you so happy.” 

                  “Thank you, Dean.” Dammit, he looked freaking _smug,_ the little trench-coated bastard.

                  Dean sighed, ruffled J’s hair, ignoring the small noise of protest this raised, and turned to leave.  J’s voice stopped him at the door.  “You could always put the picture up in your classroom.  I’m sure it would be a huge hit.” 

                  “Shut up,” Dean would have snarled, if he wasn’t too busy trying not to laugh.

                  “Squirrels are charming creatures, be kind to our woodland brethren and rejoice that you have inherited their delightful ability to look brain-dead when surprised.”

                  Dean was well and truly laughing now.  “J,” he wheezed out.

                  “Yes, Dean?” how was he so in control of his voice? 

                  “Don’t ever change.” 

                  “I don’t intend to.”

                  “Good…but no more squirrel-ish pictures, got it?” 

                  The next morning Dean discovered a photo of a squirrel taped to his door. Under it in red Sharpie was written: ‘one of us, one of us.’


	10. It's a Pirate Life for Us

**Chapter 9: It’s a Pirate’s Life for Us**

                  Orcastle Oregon was one of those relatively small, picturesque towns that sat proudly in what could easily be mistaken for the middle of nowhere by a casual observer or a lost city person.  Orcastlians were absurdly proud of this bit of status.  There were even t-shirts declaring the benefits of living in a place tourists required GPS to locate.  Benny made the shirts as a joke for the staff at his restaurant. Originally they cost five bucks a piece. Now they could be purchased for a dignified sum of twenty-two dollars plus tax at the local gift shop.

                  However, beyond suddenly over-priced t-shirts, there was one drawback to being a town both picturesque and relatively out of the way.  Film crews.  It was as if no one really realized that people actually did _live_ in the tiny slice of Oregon they were trying desperately to capture on camera.  No, obviously the shooting of the latest soppy romcom or stuffy historical drama superseded all notions of propriety and general good manners.  It was very annoying. 

                  Now, it wasn’t Orcastle’s fault that it made such a good backdrop. Nor was it the residents’ fault that they happened to live in the middle of said good backdrop. However, it most definitely _was_ the damned film crews’ faults for being offensive gits about the whole ordeal.

                  Normally it wasn’t so horrid.  The filmmakers would often be decent enough to politely email the residents of whatever block they needed on screen to let them know what was going on and what they needed to do.  Frequently only public areas were used anyway so no one was too horridly inconvenienced. However, every now and then there was _that one producer_ or _that one director_ who was just so damn _nit-picky_ about everything and so abrasively demanding about getting it that not only did their crew want to kill them, the entire town was contemplating mass murder.

                  It was really no surprise to Castiel, after surviving a ‘they’re filming in town square’ fiasco or two, and subsequently having met several film producers, that his brother Zachariah was a film producer on the more obnoxious end of the spectrum.  Castiel was fairly sure that slime ran in that Zach’s veins instead of blood.

                  However, it _was_ a surprise to Castiel when he awoke to someone banging on his door at four in the morning the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.   Actually, if one was to be a stickler for details, the rude door-knocker was banging on the door to Sam’s clinic.  Loudly. Castiel could hear it. He supposed Sam and Dean could hear it too, seeing as their respective apartments shared the space above the clinic. And yet it was Castiel that actually bothered to do something.

                  Sticking his head out one of the front windows, he peered down at the man standing on the porch.  Smirking wickedly Castiel shouted, “Hello, and welcome to Burger King.  _The_ Burger King speaking. How may _you_ help _me_ this fine morning?”

                  The man, he must be an intern of some sort, he didn’t look older than eighteen, glanced up nervously.  “Umm…hi, your majesty…?”

                  “Hello random citizen.” 

                  There was silence as Castiel waited for the kid to dredge up the nerve to say anything to him or at least confront him on the bizarre direction he had taken this conversation.  Finally the intern cleared his throat and said in what must be his best attempt at gradiosity, “Hello, my name is Alfie Sammandriel and I am here on behalf of Z. Novak productions.  We are pleased to inform you that this block will be closed off today and the four days afterward for the filming of the newest hit teen vampire film, _Midnight._ We are sure you understand the implications of the use of this section of street. All residents of this building must remove their cars from the vicinity and refrain from leaving their homes or disrupting the film shooting in any way.  Thank you for your patience and enthusiasm for this new project. We at Z. Novak Productions are all very excited about it.” 

                  The kid had to have memorized that spiel from a script, there was no way other human beings actually talked like that… oh, wait. Z. Novak… The one person Castiel had ever known who actually would talk like that and ice every word with a healthy layer of condensation and general smugness. 

                  Gritting his teeth, Castiel barked out one word, “ZACHARIAH!” before slamming his window shut.  He marched across the living room, Claire groggily watching his progress, and ripped open the apartment’s front door, only to reveal an irate Gabriel standing on his doormat.

                  “Why is your sleaze of a brother’s fucking film crew kicking me out of _my fucking bakery?!”_ Gabe’s vocabulary tended to get more colorful the more sleep-deprived and/or angry he was.

                  Castiel opened his mouth, about to say something, anything, before his cousin cut him off again. 

                  “Do you have any _idea_ what day it is, Jamie?  Huh? It’s the _fucking day before Thanksgiving!_   I’ve been awake since two am baking and baking and baking for the last-minute shoppers.  I make a _killing_ the day before Thanksgiving. And right now, it’s looking like the only thing with any chance of being killed is your asshat brother.”

                  Castiel huffed out a sigh, the air buzzing against his lips like sullen bees. At a loss for what else to say, Castiel decided it was healthier to just agree with the furious midget. “I concur on the topic of my brother’s general asshattery.  It is appalling.  He should really see a specialist for a condition like that.” 

                  Gabriel’s mouth twitched at the dead-pan humor, like he was seriously resisting the urge to at least smirk.  He managed to stay straight-faced long enough to snap, “Fix this, Jamie. Now,” before turning on his heel and sweeping away with more dignity than Castiel thought he possessed.

                  Castiel ran a hand down his face and closed his door.  He glanced at the clock.  4:17 am.  He could sleep for a few more minutes before dealing with irritating family members. He threw a chastising glance at Claire, the sort that very clearly said ‘I will turn a blind eye on the fact that you’re up far too late/early so long as you get your butt back to bed in the next five seconds.’  Claire raised a sleepy eyebrow at him but still trudged back to her room, closing the door behind her. Castiel eyed the apartment, gaze drifting over to his bedroom door and then back to the couch in front of him. Should he go back to his room and have to move paintings off of his bed or just crash on the couch…? Sleeping next to all those paintings had been very uncomfortable…and his thoughts were getting slow…and groggy…what a pearl-gray sort of feeling…

                  Castiel crumpled into the rough orange fabric of their ancient couch and curled up into a ball.  He slept fitfully until 5:03.  That was when the Winchesters each realized what exactly was happening in front of their building.

                  Dean didn’t knock like a normal person.  No, he just snatch Gabriel’s key (the man needed to stop leaving it laying around, today it was stuck in the fake plant sitting in the hallway in front of the four apartments) and unlocked Castiel’s door, wandering into the apartment, a sleepy Sam trailing after him.  Dean did not go into battle against his sleep-deprived neighbor unarmed. No, the elder Winchester carried a set of portable ipod speakers and the perfect electronic device to go with them.

                  By 5:04 the apartment was filled with the harsh jangle of eighties rock. Claire stumbled out of her room, rubbing sleep from her eyes, muttering “What the hell, is that Asia…?”

                  Castiel, realizing that Dean was not going to stop the irritating noise, and that the longer he pretended to sleep the more determined Dean was to make the noise even louder, sat up on the couch.  “What do you two want?”  Castiel growled, glaring at the Winchester brothers over the back of the couch.

                  “I want Dean to TURN OFF THE DAMN MUSIC!” Sam snapped, hands over his ears as he tried to find a corner of the room free of blaring guitar riffs.

                  “This right here is _culture,_ Sammy,” Dean reminded him before turning back to Castiel, “And I want to be able to go to my freaking job.  Some dicks won’t let me leave the building, keep saying some crap about a movie shoot and how we’re all stuck inside until they’re done filming.  Personally, I’m cool with skipping school, but I’m not so cool with getting my pay docked cuz I played hooky from my _job._ ” 

                  Castiel, coffee-less, irate and sleep-deprived, couldn’t muster any response more intelligent than: “Please go away,” before flopping back down on the couch cushions. 

                  “No, no sleeping, J,” Dean flicked Castiel’s ear, sending the other man bolting upright again.

                  “What do you aggravatingly orange people _want?!”_ Castiel groaned. 

                  “You’re related to the producer, get them to stop filming or let us out of the building or _something,”_ Dean grumped.

                  “My brothers and I are not on speaking terms,” Castiel grumbled right back.

                  Sam gave him a sympathetic look.  Dean grimaced, and said, quieter, “Sorry, man.”

                  Castiel shrugged, “Zachariah, the one with the film crew outside, is a pus-colored personality.  He always has been. I suspect he always will be.  It is unfortunate.  He does not like me.” _Or ‘me’ when I was ‘alive’,_ Castiel added silently. 

                  “I don’t care if Zachariah is a polka-dotted poodle with a pathological fear of trenchcoated booksellers, make him go _away_ or make him suffer,” Gabriel grumbled from the doorframe. The Winchesters produced a vague growl of agreement. 

                  Castiel stared blankly at the wall in front of him and counted slowly to twenty before turning back to the other occupants of the room. “Oh, how tangerine. You’re all still here.  Fine. I will do something about this nonsense. But first, coffee. Now.” 

                  And that was the last coherent sentence they dragged out of Castiel Novak until after his second cup of thick, dark liquid more similar in consistency to diesel than coffee as most knew it. 

                  He eyed the other people in his kitchen, wondering why they were still here. All had refused his offer of coffee, some with more nauseated faces than others.  After all, only some had managed to sample the delicious sludge his kitchen produced.  At least Claire had gone back to bed after Castiel refused to provide her with her own caffeinated beverage.

                  He sighed, realizing that he would not be getting any time to himself this morning.  “Negotiation is out. Zachariah thrives on it; he would prolong it as much as possible and get him way in the interim.”

                  “Zachie’s a bit of a dick,” Gabriel clarified for the benefit of the non-family members of this discussion. 

                  “…Yes…” Castiel slowly concurred, not sure what else he could have said, distracted by the glorious plan taking shape in the back of his mind, “But I have an idea for how to deal with him…” 

…

                  Dean never did learn where the pirate flag came from. But it was there. At eight am sharp, the very instant the cameras began rolling for _Midnight_ ’s filming, it unfurled.  With a soft, slithering whisper of canvas, gravity unfolded the black, white and red banner.  As soon as the flag was completely exposed, hanging from the front window of James’ apartment, smack in the middle of Zachariah’s shot, a trilling whisper of sound tripped and tumbled out of Gabriel’s bakery.  The noise expanded, resolving into a simple, shrill tune.  Dean could have sworn it was a pennywhistle. And that pirate flag was a perfect replica of Blackbeard’s iconic flag.  Skeleton, spear, hourglass and bleeding heart shone hot and bright in the November sun. 

                  And then Gabe began singing and all hell broke loose.

…

                  All of Zachariah’s filming was ruined that morning.  No matter where he took the cameras around the apartment/shop building the flag, the singing, and the piercing pennywhistle followed him. As the day wore on the disruptions only got more outrageous.  Sam managed to hook up the sound systems of his clinic, Gabe’s bakery, and the bookstore to Dean’s laptop where the history teacher was conveniently watching documentaries he was considering showing his classes.  Documentaries about pirates.  Complete with cannon noises and multi-actor voice-over narration.

                  Claire’s performance on the pennywhistle was incredible and Gabriel’s knowledge of old (incredibly dirty-minded) sea shanties terrifyingly impressive. When the performers grew tired, Sam designated the speakers in his clinic to play GarageBand recordings of their little show.  The visual-audio assault to the senses, like any pirate attack, was relentless and cruel. A take-no-prisoners campaign, none were spared the indignity and aggravation of their antics.

                  Zachariah broke by noon. 

…

                  Castiel answered the door in his bathrobe.  He didn’t need to wear the robe.  He had on normal clothes beneath it.  He could have answered the door fully dressed.  Possibly even thrown a tie and jacket over the ensemble lurking beneath the bathrobe and made an appearance at one of the nicer restaurants in town.  But no, Castiel answered the door dressed in an offensively purple, paint-splattered robe he had bought on clearance at Target for the sole purpose of wearing whenever he wanted people to go away. 

                  It appeared to be working.  Zacariah’s smarmy smile never left his face, but all of his features spasmed at once in order to execute the muscular directive not to be nonplussed by one’s odd younger brother.  “James,” the single word slithered across the elder Novak’s lips, slipping out like a piece of gristle from an expensive steak.  Mildly gross, incongruous, and extremely unwelcome. 

                  Castiel tipped his head to the side and regarded his brother with furrowed brows. He remembered when they were children how that disquieted the smug bastard.  Castiel and Jimmy used to be able to do it perfectly in sync. It was a beautiful thing.

                  The silence stretched onward and outward, filling the room like helium in a balloon.  The fingers of Zachariah’s left hand began to twitch and dance as his discomfort slowly but surely manifested itself.  Zach had hoped that Castiel would have responded by now.  A response would pass the conversational power back to the elder brother, allowing him to take charge.  Castiel knew Zachariah, knew him very well, too well to allow himself to be conned as he had when they were children and it was all relatively harmless.

                  _“James,”_ ah, the teeth were grinding now.  Castiel could hear the sweet crunch of molar crushing into molar. 

                  Resisting the urge to smirk, knowing that would ruin the effect, Castiel slowly reached behind him, toward the table by the front door.  There it was.  His fingers danced across the box resting there, nails hooking under the cardboard lid, pulling the lid up and swinging it around until it was flush against his chest, facing outward. 

                  Zachariah Novak blinked once, twice, thrice.  His face turned a lovely shade of puce.  His prematurely white hair seemed to stand on end.    

                  As Zachariah’s mouth worked swiftly, no sound managing to escape beyond the occasional whimper-whisper-squeak, Castiel clutched the cardboard lid even tighter.  He slowly, inexorably, reached forward and pressed it into Zachariah’s fluttering hands. Then, as his brother’s fluttering fingers finally slowed down enough to take hold of the box lid, Castiel stepped back and softly closed the door. 

                  With a sigh he turned and faced the room at large, scanning the assembled faces of Dean, Sam, Claire and Gabriel.  “I’m going to need a new lid for ‘Sorry’.  I seem to have presented mine to Zachariah.” 

                  Gabe snorted, “More than he deserved.” 

                  Castiel blinked slowly, and then said, deadpan, “But my apology was so sincere.”

                  Dean laughed, long and loud and grinned at Castiel, “Perfect. Just too perfect, man.”

                  A sleek, smug smile slunk across Castiel’s face.  He bowed; a small little proper bow of the courtly sort no one really saw anymore.  Then he rose and glided across the room to settle on the couch between Dean and Claire and continue watching documentaries over his friend’s shoulder.

                  As soon as the film crew came off lunch the sound affects began again. The pirate flag still flew. No footage from that day was salvageable, and the incessant pennywhistle had managed to send two interns, one high strung makeup artist, and both the leading lady and male love interest into mild hysterics.

                  Thanksgiving morning the next day dawned perfect.  Just nippy enough to be properly fall and just sunny enough to make the yellow leaves still clinging to branches glow gold. And there was no one banging on the door to Sam’s clinic demanding their patience during the movie shoot from hell. Instead Castiel found a very arrogant note (on monogrammed stationary, with a _coat of arms_ , how pompous _was_ his brother?) taped to his door. 

                  The note, once all of the unnecessary posturing and semantics taken out, was actually quite simple.  It explained, in offensively polite terms, that Z. Novak Productions would be filming at their location at a later date and that someone from their office would inform them ahead of time in order to give the ‘residents’ ample opportunity to leave the area.

                  Castiel smirked quietly to himself as he handed the note off to Gabriel, Dean and Sam.  The three of them laughed their heads off.  Sighing softly, Castiel sent an ironic look up to the heavens.  “Why, God, did those turquoise morons not bother to return the lid to my game of ‘Sorry’?”  This only incited more laughter.  It was one of the few truly good mornings. 

                  Of course there always has to be a mood-ruiner.  It’s the way life works.  Because at that very moment, Gabriel’s cellphone rang. 

                  “Hello?”

                  Gabriel’s face grew steadily paler and paler as he listened to the gabble of voices on the other end of the line.  Finally, after a very short eternity, he hung up and turned to face his friends.

                  “My parents are in town for Thanksgiving.  They’re staying at Mary Winchester’s bed and breakfast. I am so royally screwed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So "Midnight" may not be a real movie, but Blackbeard's flag seriously did look exactly like I described. It's pretty gruesome/cool. :)  
> Also, check out the song 'French Perfume' by Great Big Sea, it's a great pirate song and may or may not have inspired this chapter...


	11. Let’s Give Thanks (and please pass the salt and holy water)

**Chapter 10: Let’s Give Thanks (and please pass the salt and holy water)**

                  “Dad’s not allowed to cook,” were the first words out of Claire’s mouth. Every head in the room swiveled away from Gabriel and his cellphone, eyes focusing in on the preteen girl, ears pricked for more bizarre pronouncements.

                  “And why, pray tell, is he being denied his constitutional right to make dinners so appalling my parents will leave ahead of schedule? Hmmm?”  Gabriel narrowed his eyes at her. 

                  “Because I have to eat them too and living here is not optional,” Claire arched a brow at him, “And I actually like Becky and Chuck.” 

                  “ _Liking them_ isn’t the issue. The issue is that they’re batshit crazy!” Gabriel squeaked. 

                  “Language, Gabriel, there are children present,” his cousin chastised, motioning toward Sam and Dean on the word ‘children’. 

                  “I do what I want, bitch,” Gabriel snarked, a crooked grin sprawling across his face. 

                  Sam, not sure what else to do, and thinking the situation couldn’t honestly get any weirder, raised his hand. 

                  “Yes, Samsquatch, what do you want?” Gabriel asked. 

                  “What exactly is the problem with Gabe’s parents?” 

                  “They’re a pair of psychos!  Haven’t you been listening, Sammy-boy?”  Gabriel demanded. 

                  “They’re a rather fascinating study of chaotic realism,” James opined.

                  The room was dead silent for several long seconds as everyone digested what that actually meant.  Sam, of course, realized that what it _meant_ didn’t matter so much as what the implications were for their Thanksgiving and what sort of effect these unknown people would have.

                  “Please tell me that little bit of fortune-cookie was _not_ artist-speak for cuckoo for cocoa puffs…” Dean grumbled.

                  Sam ran a hand through his shaggy mop of auburn hair. Maybe if he went to go pick Adam up from the airport Gabe’s parents would be gone by the time he got back to his mom’s bed and breakfast…? 

                  Dean shot him a _look_ , “No, Sammy, I call dibs on picking up Adam.” 

                  Damn older brothers and their annoying habit of knowing what you’re thinking. Sam gave him his own version of the _look._

Dean valiantly struggled against the forces of little-brother-puppy-dog-facing for a solid minute before crumpling like wet newspaper.  “Fine, you can come with.  But no messing with the music!” 

                  “Can I come too?” a note of desperation was creeping into Gabriel’s voice.

                  “Lovely, a group outing.”  It was completely impossible to tell if James was being sarcastic or not.

                  Dean’s face was twitching slightly at the thought of all of them crammed into his precious Impala.  Or perhaps he was busy imagining a forty-five-minute car ride with Gabe in the backseat. Sam was glad to be the voice of reason before his brother completely snapped, “We won’t all fit in the Impala. And Adam has luggage.”

                  Dean’s facial expression was something along the lines of: _oh, thank god and whoever else might be listening._ It was a documented fact that Sam’s brother did not mind sharing a vehicle with Sam. It was also a documented fact that Dean Winchester did not mind sharing a vehicle with James or even Claire. There was a third documented fact in play that indicated that if forced to occupy the same small space for more than fifteen minutes, Dean and Gabriel would both explode in twin fits of mutual destruction.

                  “Rock paper scissors?” Claire suggested. 

                  Sam and Dean both opened their mouths, poised to protest this mode of settling the issue, phrases like ‘we’re grown adults’ poised on their tongues. Claire gave them a flat look. Both Winchesters’ jaws clicked shut with near-audible snaps. 

                  Sam readied his hands for a bout of ‘rock paper scissors’.

…

                  It turned out that either the brothers were both incredibly good at the game, or both incredibly bad.  The number of times each threw down the exact same ‘rock’ ‘paper’ or ‘scissors’ was nearing the realms of statistically impossible by the time Castiel decided to intervene and end the tedious game.  After some necessary bickering regarding who exactly ‘won’ the last round both Sam and Dean found themselves hustled out the door and sent on their somewhat-less-than-merry way.  As soon as the human whirlwind that was the Winchesters had vacated the premises, Castiel allowed himself to drop into an armchair and massaged his aching temples.

                  Gabriel remained standing in the middle of the living room, quietly rocking back and forth on his heels and humming quietly to himself. Claire had vanished back into her room, presumably to put on clothing other than a t-shirt and Hello Kitty pajama pants.  Castiel looked up from his fingers, regarding Gabriel with chilly blue eyes. “Isn’t there somewhere you need to be, Mellow Yellow?” 

                  “Hmm, I’m gonna assume that’s some sort of official Crayola color seeing as the likelihood of you giving me a nickname is about as high as Zachie dearest winning an Oscar.  And nooo, nowhere at all.  I’m just dying to spend Thanksgiving with my darling cousin, Jimbo.”  Gabriel tossed in a charming smile for good measure.

                  Castiel narrowed his eyes and steadfastly remained uncharmed. “Go greet your parents, Gabriel. Dawdling is unseemly and unfortunately burnt umber of you.” 

                  “Burnt umber…that’s a pretty color…”

                  “Do not be deliberately obtuse, Gabriel, you and I both know it is a horrendous color on you.”

                  A petty little staring match followed, one which Castiel easily won. That didn’t stop him from slowly, deliberately and luxuriously blinking seconds after Gabriel lost, just to rub in the victory a bit more.  Not that Castiel would ever admit such appallingly salmon-colored motives.

                  Turning away from Gabriel, who was busy rubbing very dry eyes, Castiel said quietly, “Enjoy the fact that your parents are _here._ ” The last part of that sentence: ‘mine certainly aren’t’ remained unspoken, but Castiel could still feel it nibbling away at the back of his mind.  He crushed it callously.  Now was hardly the time to contemplate old grievances or pick at scabbed-over wounds.

                  “Yeah, okay, little cuz, okay.”  If anyone else had heard those words they would have thought Gabriel was grumbling his way into agreeing to bow to Castiel’s demands.  But Castiel Novak had never been anyone else and he knew for a fact that Gabe was saying something very similar to ‘I’m sorry, I forgot your father ran off and your mother’s insane, I’m going to stop acting like a spoiled brat and will now go appreciate the company of my extremely eccentric, but honestly very nice, parents.’  You had to be able to read between the lines with Gabriel.  Otherwise you’d just wind up disappointed or homicidal.

                  Gabe left soon after that and Castiel tipped his head back, letting it drop onto the back of his chair as he closed his eyes and just breathed in and out, in and out, in and - 

                  CRASH!

                  Good god, what was the problem now?

…

                  It was well-known fact that Becky Shurley was _the_ name in interior design.  Bright, bubbly and full capable of giving Martha Stewart a run for her money, Becky was every home-designer’s dream.  She was just that good.  Little did her adoring public suspect where she got all her practice being _just that good._

                  Castiel Novak swept down his stairs, hastily-thrown-on trenchcoat billowing behind him, to behold his bookshop in an extremely awkward state of semi-renovation. Yes, all the wallpaper was still there, and Castiel might have had a conniption if anyone had so much as touched the large honey-comb-patterned rug sprawling across the laminate flooring, but every stick of furniture was rearranged.  Regular customers Becky had either charmed or bullied into helping were busy shifting bookshelves and realigning chairs to give the place a ‘warmer, more inviting feel, with a touch or modernity’. 

                  Castiel resisted the urge to grind his teeth.  It was a close call.  Instead he re-aligned his tie (conveniently not noticing that in his haste he had managed to put the thing on backwards) and marched into the fray, determined to find his aunt.  As he marched past, coat still flapping ominously behind him, people fell still and silent, whatever Becky-given project they had been fussing over forgotten as they watched Castiel stride through his realm.  Ripples of stillness spread outward from his dark-haired form like wavelets in a pond, ever-expanding. 

                  Finally, he found her, the epicenter of all this madness. Becky Novak Shurley, his father’s slightly-deranged-but-essentially-well-meaning sister.

                  “Becky-.” Castiel began, but soon found himself cut off.

                  “Jamie!” arms flew around him and he suddenly found all the air crushed out of his lungs. 

                  “Hello-.” Castiel tried to begin again, but was once more cut off.

                  “Don’t you just adore what we’ve done here?” she flung herself out of the hug and right back into the thick of things, “We had to borrow a few pieces from that _delicious_ young doctor’s office -.”

                  _‘When did she see Sam?’_ Castiel wondered before his ears caught up to his brain, _‘Wait, how did she-?  SHE SWITCHED SAM AND I’S FURNITURE?!’_

                  Meanwhile, Becky was still jabbering, “And I dropped a few of your more… indecorous odds and ends off at Gabe’s, I’m sure he’ll know what to do with them…”

                  “How did you get in here?” Castiel interjected.

                  “Picked the lock, silly!” she chirped, eyes telling him not to interrupt on no uncertain terms.

                  _‘She picked the lock…of course…’_ Castiel mentally face-palmed. 

                  “Now, as I was saying, I’m going for a more modern look, and don’t you just love the blue accents I’ve brought in here?  A place should always reflect its owner and your eyes are just lovely, sweetie…” 

                  “Where’s Chuck?” Castiel dared to interrupt one more time.

                  She huffed  little exasperated sigh as if she couldn’t believe he didn’t have better manners after all this time, “Back at the Winchester B & B, Mrs. Winchester’s been so generous to include us in her Thanksgiving plans, Chucky just _had_ to help her out with the food.  Now, pay attention to what I was telling you, you will just _love_ what I’m doing with your shop…”

                  Castiel wondered what sort of apologetic fruit basket one sends to one’s neighbor after one’s aunt steals their furniture. 

…

                  “Dad…”

                  “Oh, yes, hello there Gabe.” 

                  “…”

                  “…”

                  “Dad?”

                  “Yeah? Oh, Gabe, you’re still here.”

                  “Why are you hiding under a table, peeling potatoes?”

                  “It’s a long story.” 

                  “I’ve got all day and a bottomless supply of lollipops. Entertain me.”

…

                  The Winchester brothers arrived at their mother’s bed and breakfast in a hail of luggage and a barrage of chatter. 

                  “Dear god, not more of them,” Chuck groaned and sank further down into himself.

                  “Now, now, pops, you can’t go doing things like writing ridiculously popular books and _not_ expect the occasional rabid fan,” Gabriel chuckled, thumbing through a copy of his dad’s latest bestseller. 

                  “I should have stayed home and just skyped Thanksgiving,” Chuck muttered.

                  “How rude,” Gabriel chastised, still snickering, “And those aren’t any of your fans anyway, they’re just the rest of the Winchester mafia.”

                  Right on cue Sam tromped past, or tried to, his effort at moving forward sharply curtailed by the potato he tripped on, sending him crashing face-first into the floor.  “Goddammit,” he cursed, then suddenly paused and peered under the table, “Gabe? What are you doing?”

                  “Wreaking havoc!” Gabriel chirped, flinging his arms open wide.

                  Sam grunted, “Go figure.” 

                  Gabe made an ironic ‘heart’ with his fingers then went back to flipping through the book in his hands. 

                  Sam snorted and pushed himself into a crouching position. “Who’s the guy in the bathrobe?” he asked, brows furrowing.

                  “That’s my daddy-o.  He’s hiding from his stalkers.”

                  “Stalkers? Multiple.”

                  “Yeppers, there’re multiple webpages devoted to the stalk-Chuck-Shurley effort. You can find them if you Google his pen-name,” Gabe shoved the book in Sam’s surprised face. The middle Winchester took it, and glanced at the cover.

                  “Carver Edlund?  Wait, you’re that guy…”

                  “Here we go again,” Chuck groaned to himself.

                  “…who writes those books... my ex-girlfriend was obsessed with them!”

                  “Really? Which one?” a new voice sounded behind Sam as another pair of feet appeared in Gabriel’s sightline.

                  “Hey Adam, umm, I think it was Ruby.”

                  “Which Ruby?  You dated two of them,” Adam asked, crouching down to Gabriel and Chuck’s level. He stage-whispered behind his hand, “ _He’s got a bit of a ‘Ruby’ fetish._ ”

                  “The blonde one, jackass,” Sam playfully cuffed his younger brother upside the head. 

                  “So not the crazy one?” Adam raised a sarcastic eyebrow.

                  “They were both crazy, just only one of them was actively psychotic,” Dean’s voice sounded somewhere in the background. 

                  “Sammy’s love life is like an episode of NCIS,” Adam explained.

                  “Okay, Madison was the only one who got arrested!” Sam protested.

                  “Yeah, on assault and battery charges,” Dean piped up. 

                  “She was hot,” Adam mused teasingly.

                  “That’s it, I’m killing both of you,” Sam grumbled, shoving Adam playfully and standing up.  Adam, and presumably Dean, followed him into the dining room, bickering as they went.

                  “Well, that was fun,” Chuck mused in a slightly shell-shocked manner.

                  “Wait until Thanksgiving dinner,” Gabe grinned, “That’s when all hell breaks loose.” 

…

                  It took an act of God and a great deal of patience on Castiel’s part to get Becky to leave his shop alone long enough to hustle her over to Mary Winchester’s Bed and Breakfast for Thanksgiving dinner.  Of course, things would have been a great deal easier if Castiel had possessed a car.  Or a driver’s license. Or any other mode of transportation other than his own feet.  But eventually he, Becky and Claire arrived on Mary’s doorstep, a bit soggy from the drizzling, misty rain that had started up almost immediately after they left the warmth of the bookshop. 

                  Castiel looked up when Mary opened the door, “I would have brought some sort of baked good to contribute to Thanksgiving but I have been informed that it would be a greater gift to the people of earth if I refrained from cooking for a day. As such, the only food in my home which didn’t require culinary expertise was this pineapple.” He held out the spiny fruit, “Please take it and do what you will with it. As it is, if it stays on my counter any longer Gabriel will probably steal it and use it as a football…again.”

                  Mary laughed and took the fruit, “Thank you, Jamie.  Happy Thanksgiving to you too.” 

                  Castiel beamed at her, “How very auburn of you, thank you.”

                  Mrs. Winchester escorted them inside, a smile on her face. This would prove to be a very interesting evening.

…

                  They had just sat down to dinner when the first knock on the door was heard. Mary sighed gently, “Dean, would you get the door, please?”

                  Grumbling good-naturedly, Dean rose and disappeared into the front entryway. What happened next seemed to unfold, almost in slow motion across Sam’s mind’s eye.  The doorknob clicked open with a recalcitrant snick, the hinges sang a squealing little song as the door swung open, Dean’s low voice rose in a grumpy question and suddenly a feminine squeal tore through the air.

                  “Eeeeeeh!!!! He’s here, isn’t he?!  I’ve gotta see him!”

                  The shriek was eardrum-piercing, head-shattering, cerebellum-invading. There may have been a shot heard round the world in 1776 but Sam was fairly certain that squeal was heard round the world _twice_ before swinging back around to burrow into his brain so deeply his ears were still ringing.

                  No one really heard Dean’s response.  There was a vague impression of sound as it rose in irritable, demanding, protest before it was overwhelmed with the sheer force of female enthusiasm gushing forth from the doorway. 

                  “Let me seeeee himmmm!” 

                  “I’ve gotta get my copy autographed!” 

                  _Great,_ Sam thought, _there are two banshees standing at the doorway_.

Dean responded by loudly slamming the door shut.  The thud of his boots could be heard reverberating through the hall like Darth Vader’s. He stopped in the doorway to the dining room and stood, feet planted, arms crossed.  Sam resisted the urge to slink down in his chair like any younger brother faced with elder-sibling-wrath. 

                  “What the holy fuck was that?” Dean demanded, voice flat and hard.

                  “My fans,” Chuck sighed, “They’re all convinced I’m some sort of glamorous figure…”

                  “Now, you can hardly complain about that, sweetie-pie,” Becky sing-songed.

                  “Those new author-bio photos made me look too…”

                  “Glamorous?” Claire suggested when Chuck’s trailing-off was getting excessive.

                  “Cerulean?” J offered to the befuddlement of a large portion of the table.

                  “Less like a druggie-flasher-whacko?  Because, hate to break it to you, Pops, but the bathrobe is not a valid fashion statement among the sane people.” Gabriel, the ever-supportive son, offered. 

                  Chuck chewed on the word a bit before coughing it up, “Yes.”

                  “Imagine that, you take off the bathrobe and put on normal clothes and you look glamorous.  Low standards? Yes.  Good for self-esteem-building?  Sure.  A smart thing to do when your fanbase is largely composed of teenage girls? No, not so much Pops,” Gabriel said.

                  “You were just criticizing the bathrobe two seconds ago,” Adam pointed out.

                  “I do what I want,” was Gabriel’s largely-pointless reply.

                  “Will there be more of these…interruptions?” Mary asked with incisive tact.

                  “Probably,” all members of the Novak-Shurley clan replied. 

                  Mary’s lips thinned into a tight line, “New rule, none of your fans get into my dining room.  I want a nice Thanksgiving dinner and we will have a nice Thanksgiving dinner, understood?”

                  Grumbles of assent slithered their way around the table. 

                  “Good.” Mary snapped her napkin open with authority, “Let’s eat.”

                  The doorbell rang.

                  It was going to be a long dinner. 

…

                  In the end a grand total of twenty three Carver Edlund fans tried to crash Thanksgiving. Only four of them made it past the entryway.  Chuck ended up giving them autographs he was so impressed with their sheer determination. The incidents were enough to get both the Shurleys to swear off Twitter and Facebook for life. No one needed to know where they were at all times.  No matter how much Becky desperately wanted to snap pictures for internet-posting of all the redesigning she had inflicted on her nephew’s bookstore, she promised she would resist the urge in the future, and if it completely overcame her self-control she would neglect to include the shop’s street address.  (Castiel, of course, was mostly concerned with the use of the words ‘in the future’ within that thought process.  He did not like the idea that future redesigns were an option.).

                  But, despite having to periodically run interference between Chuck and his fans, it was a quite pleasant Thanksgiving.  In the end, Chuck’s rising paranoia regarding his followers was harder to deal with than the followers themselves.  Every single one of the girls was really very nice once she got past the initial excitement of Carver Edlund being within shouting distance. Mary ended up giving several of the late-coming fans bags of leftovers to take home. Of course, there were at least five awkward moments when Dean opened the door to see some of his high school history students staring back at him.  On the plus side they didn’t stare for long as most took one look at his face and made a break for it.  (Incidentally, an unofficial student poll a few weeks before had named Dean Winchester both the hottest and scariest teacher at Orcastle High School.).

                  Castiel smiled as he walked home, reflecting on the evening and reveling in the silence all around him.  The world was soft and navy blue, the only sounds to disturb the quiet the gentle rustle of Dean, Sam and Gabriel following behind him and the muffled clip-clop of Claire trotting ahead of them. 

                  “Dammit!” Gabe cursed lightly, scattering the quiet into a million bright, yellow pieces. 

                  “Hmm?” Castiel replied, feeling too relaxed to bother with a more articulate answer.

                  “We didn’t do the thing!” Gabe yelped.

                  “That didn’t sound dirty at all,” Dean said sarcastically. Sam punched his brother’s arm but Castiel could hear the giant laughing quietly.

                  “What thing are you referring to?” Castiel asked lazily.

                  “Come on, you know, that thing your dad used to do every thanksgiving. The super cheesy thing where we all say something we’re thankful for?  You know; the thing?” 

                  Despite the soft sting of the words ‘your dad’, Castiel smiled lightly, “Would you like to attempt to ‘do the thing’, Gabriel?”

                  “Yep, still sounds dirty,” Dean commented.

                  Castiel smiled.  He felt a heavy hand fall on his head and ruffle his hair as Dean said, “See, even J thinks it’s funny.”

                  Gabriel snorted, “I’m wounded at your mockery, truly I am.”

                  Castiel let out a soft laugh. 

                  He could feel Gabe’s glower, “I’ll start, thank you very much. I’m thankful that I’ve got all you asshats to be my friends, cuz being alone sucks and if you’re going to have friends, make them at least as rude and interesting as you are, right?”

                  “Wow, very heartfelt, Gabe,” Sam said flatly.

                  “It’s true, though!” Gabe protested, and if his eyes seemed a bit too bright as a streetlamp gleamed off unexpectedly damp irises, Castiel saw no reason to comment. 

                  “Your turn, Jimbo!” Gabe chirped at him.

                  Castiel cleared his throat, surprised to find it suddenly tight with a strange almost-feeling he couldn’t really name.  “I am thankful for many things, Gabriel,” he hedged.

                  “Boo! Hiss! Not good enough, say something better!” Gabe insisted.

                  Castiel sighed and looked back up at the chill November sky, then back down, gaze fixing on Claire where the girl had stopped to look back at them and listen in on their conversation.  His eyes slid away from her and over to where Gabe, Dean and Sam walked beside him. Sighing again, Castiel turned his face away from them and said into the cold night, “I am thankful for what I have now and what I have had in the past.  I am thankful I have a future.  I am thankful for this navy blue night and I am thankful for the amber, leaf green, chartreuse, and canary yellow people sharing this sidewalk with me. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Gabriel?” 

                  “Yeah,” Gabe was smiling, soft and crooked, and staring up at the night sky, “Yeah, it does.”

                  “Well, I’m thankful for family and friends and the weirdoes who love me!” Claire chirped, running back to hug Castiel.  He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, planting a single brief kiss on the top of her blonde head. 

                  Two Novaks and one Shurley went silent, staring at two Winchesters impatiently. 

                  “Fine, Dean, I’ll go next seeing as you’re too emotionally constipated to manage it.” 

                  Dean smacked him upside the head but didn’t argue the point.

                  Sam wrinkled his brows, “I’m thankful my big brother’s alive (no thanks to his stupid stubborn streak), that my mom and my kid brother are doing okay…” he trailed off, giving Gabriel a strange look as the shorter man stared at him expectantly, “…and I guess I’m thankful for my neighbors too, since Gabe looks like he might cry if I don’t say so…”

                  “I shall not cry!  Real men do not cry! They _weep._ With _dignity!”_ Gabriel insisted.

                  “Okay, short stuff,” Sam clapped him on the shoulder, “If you say so. Dean, your turn.”

                  Dean grumbled some unintelligible gibberish and stuffed his hands in his pockets, staring hard at the ground.  “I’m thankful for… my mom, my genius baby brothers, everyone else...my whacko neighbors, yes that includes you, Gabe…and my best friend…yeah, that’s about it.” 

                  “Wait, you have a best friend?” Sam asked.

                  “Who is it?” Gabe demanded.

                  “Gabe, chill, we are not preteen girls,” Claire started. All four men stared at her. “Ok, I’m a preteen girl, but I’m the mature one here!” 

                  “Well, duh, J’s my best friend.  You guys are weird.” Dean gave all of them a skeptical look, as if he were seriously doubting their sanity, before pulling ahead and walking past all of them, whacking Castiel and Sam both on the back of the head as he did so.

                  “He’s just uncomfortable because my mom spent most of dinner making jokes about him and Jimbo being like a couple,” Gabe snickered. 

                  “Huh?” Dean said, surprised.

                  “Hmmm, you didn’t hear those?  Well, okay, pretend I didn’t mention it…”

                  “You’re family’s kinda socially awkward, dude.”

                  “You have no idea,” Gabe rolled his eyes heavenward.

                  Castiel smiled to himself as he listened to his friends and family bicker all around him.  He was happy. He was someone’s best friend. He hadn’t been that important to another person since Jimmy died.  He remembered other Thanksgivings when he and Jimmy would always include each other in their ‘I’m thankful’ spiels. 

Castiel closed his eyes for a moment and thought to his twin, wherever he was now, _‘I am thankful I knew you.  I will never forget you.’_

And then he thought to himself, _‘I’m thankful for my best friend, Dean.  See, I’m not alone.’_

And the five of them walked home, through the navy blue night. 


	12. Tis the Season to... WTF?!

**Chapter 11: Tis the Season to…WTF?!**

                  “Here’s the plan -“

                  “We find the city of gold, we take the gold…”

                  “And we row back to Spain like there’s no mañana!” Gabriel sighed, “Don’t you just love movie quotes?”

                  “ _Road to El Dorado!”_ Claire grinned as she and Gabe slapped a high-five. 

                  “Is there an actual plan, Gabe, or are we just standing around quoting movies?” Sam asked; brows furrowed. 

                  “ _To be or not to be, whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or take arms against a sea of troubles-!”_

                  “Gabe, if you keep quoting Shakespeare I may have to start removing your limbs and some of your non-vital organs,” Dean said flatly.

                  Gabe sniffed, _“Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,_ (all named Dean Winchester) _and by opposing, end them!”_ he grinned smugly.

                  Dean glowered, but there was no real venom behind the glare. After all, it was nearly impossible to truly glare at someone wearing a Christmas sweater as cheesy and atrocious as the one currently decorating Gabriel Shurley.  Although, upon further analysis, Dean realized that the winking cartoon Christmas tree knitted into the front of the fuzzy red/white/green monstrosity was a little bit creepy.  And that the flashing miniature Christmas lights on the sleeves were probably blinding passers-by.  Oh well, twas the season.  And they were in a mall. In December.  Their current location had become the land of rude shoppers. Why not do what all the cool kids were doing and piss off at least ten people before leaving?

                  “Do we have a plan or not?” Dean tried to growl out the words menacingly, but it came out as more of a wheezing chuckle as he watched people gawk at Gabe’s horrendous sweater. 

                  “Yes,” Gabe still sounded huffy.  Too bad, he and his ugly sweater seemed to be on the fast track for becoming the Orcastle mall’s new Christmas icon.  And if that wasn’t a scary thought, Dean didn’t know what was.

                  “You don’t actually have a plan, do you?” Sam deadpanned.

                  “Not as such, no.  But I’m sure I can BS one if you desperately need structure, Sammy-boy.  Honestly, children these days, no sense of creativity.”

                  Claire rolled her eyes.  “Why don’t we just split up into two groups of two and meet back here after an hour of shopping so we can switch partners?  That way we can get gifts for everyone without spoiling the surprise…” she trailed off as she realized the three adults in her group were staring at her incredulously.

                  “Holy crap, you two just got out-planned by a middle-schooler. That’s gotta sting,” Dean seemed on the verge into breaking into an unholy cackle.

                  Gabe gave him a miffed glare, “I am not so crude or childish to require planned activities for my day. I make it up as I go.”

                  “Very mature,” Sam remarked dryly, “I vote you go with Claire, since she seems to have absorbed any maturity you might have once had through some sort of familial osmosis.” 

                  Gabe seemed on the verge of protesting, but Dean stepped in. “Okay, let’s get moving, I want our asses out of here as soon as possible. I’m not sure how much more of this tinsel hell-hole I can take.”

                  And with much bickering and very little ceremony, the quartet began the Great Search for Christmas Gifts. 

…

                  Castiel Novak was not the sort of person who went shopping for Christmas presents. Or any presents for that matter. The only shopping he did was of the grocery store variety.  At least, that was the only shopping he appeared to do.  Somehow, someway, without ever appearing to deviate from his usual patterns of behavior, Castiel managed to procure the world’s best Christmas gifts.  They were always perfect for the recipient whether the recipient had asked for the object or not. These were always exactly right. Castiel had such an uncanny knack for gift-giving that Claire spent most of her early childhood convinced that Santa Claus was not, in fact, a jolly white-bearded man dressed all in red, but was instead an eccentric, dark-haired, blue-eyed artist dressed in a worn trenchcoat.

                  Needless to say, Castiel felt absolutely no need to venture out into the mall on this hectic December day.  Honestly, he didn’t really feel the need to crawl out from under the heap of blankets piled atop his bed.  His head was pounding a steady rhythm generally associated with snare drums and other instruments of precussional torture, every swallow made him feel like someone had stuffed a lighter down his throat, his scarred and nerve-damaged right arm was doing its level best to establish itself as the king of all bodily pains, and he couldn’t breathe through his nose. 

                  *Sneeze*

                  *Cough, cough*

                  *Ugh…*

                  With a pained moan, Castiel rolled his limp, cold-ridden body out of bed, barely even registering the dull pain as his body whapped against the hardwood floor of his bedroom.  He lay there for a moment, pressing his face against the blessedly cool material, and thanking god and whoever else might be listening that Claire had left with the Winchesters before he was fully conscious enough to make intelligible conversation. At least she didn’t know he was sick. That was good…

                  Castiel Novak was the sort of person who did not get _sick._ With his tenuous legal identity situation he could never get medical insurance and as Claire’s only parental figure he _couldn’t_ succumb to illness.  Who would take care of her if he spent days curled up in bed, feeling ill and sorry for himself?  Gabe? No, he couldn’t foist his niece onto his cousin.  That wasn’t what civilized people did.  (He did not bother to ponder the inherent implication in that statement that Amelia, Claire’s mother, was not civilized.  That… _person_ …was an issue he had contemplated time and again and was really rather sick of.)

                  Speaking of sickness…

                  So Castiel had developed a system of coping with any ailments. It was not healthy. It was not advisable. People really shouldn’t do this to their bodies. 

                  He simply _ignored_ any illnesses he might have.  Through sheer force of will he crushed them down into a tiny corner of his awareness and worked past them.  He could, would, and had done this for indefinite amounts of time before.  Essentially, all he really needed to do in these situations was ignore the problem for long enough that it either was annihilated by his immune system (which was, admittedly, extraordinarily strong) or wait until Claire was gone for the night or the weekend at either a friend’s house or Chuck and Becky’s Seattle residence.  After Claire was safely on her way he would crumple like a wet paper bag, spend 24 to 48 hours sleeping, guzzling medicine and focusing all his energy on healing, and be ready for her return almost completely healthy. 

                  And as far as Castiel knew, the system worked. 

                  Still lying on the floor, pathetically grateful that Claire had arranged to go Christmas shopping with the Winchester brothers and Gabe that day and that she had left while he was still mostly asleep, Castiel wondered how willing he was to peel himself off of that blessed floor and find some Dayquil. Or maybe some food. Or some tea…

                  It was shaping up to be an aggressively pea soup colored day.

…

                  “Bonzai!” Gabe yelped as he leapt from behind a sad-looking potted plant in some obscure corner of the mall, a horrible knit hat clutched in his hands.

                  Dean dodged the charging baker, spinning on his heel to watch Gabe and the offensive hat crash into Sam.  Gabe teetered away, struggling to regain his balance, while Sam pawed at the hat which had somehow become stuck on his face.  A soft chuckle sounding behind him was the only warning Dean received before he felt a second hat shoved onto his head.  Whipping around, the elder Winchester glowered at the snickering preteen behind him.

                  “Was the hat really necessary?” he demanded.

                  Claire was laughing too hard to produce an intelligible response. Instead, she and Gabe slapped high-fives and fled to a different part of the mall, leaving the brothers struggling with their respective knitwear. 

                  Sammy must have finally managed to remove the hat from his face because Dean could practically _hear_ the bitch-face as his little brother said: “Dammit, Dean.  This hat has freaking _antlers._ ”

                  Now it was Dean’s turn to laugh until he couldn’t speak.

…

                  Castiel opened the bookstore against his better judgment. After an hour spent trying to clear his sinuses while searching the apartment for the cold medicine (apparently in a fit of organizational eccentricity he had stuffed it and several boxes of asprin in an old paint can and stuck it in the back corner of the kitchen pantry) the artist brewed himself a thermos of tea and slouched downstairs to his store. He was now perched on a stool behind the cash register, glowering malevolently over the rim of his thermos at the milling herd of Christmas book-shoppers.  All of which seemed too cowed by his foul mood and plum-toned presence to dare venture over to the counter and actually _buy_ anything.

                  Perfect.

                  Castiel was and would have been, quite content to spend the remainder of the day in this stalemate with the masses.  But even the best-laid plans and most articulate glares go awry. With a thud, one shopper sounded the death-nell to Castiel’s day in splendid isolation.

                  Charlie Bradbury, student teacher extraordinaire, grinned at him over the top of the stack of books she had unceremoniously dumped in front of him (hence the dramatic thud). 

                  “Merry Christmas and live long and prosper!”

                  Castiel blinked at her very, very, very slowly.  She failed to get the message.  He stared soulfully into the depths of his thermos of tea as if communing with it. She began to hum the Harry Potter theme music.  He reached behind the counter and plopped a brand-new unwrapped game of SORRY! In front of her.

                  “Ooh! Can I buy this too? My girlfriend would _love_ it!” Charlie chirped. 

                  “No.” the short, mildly indignant response was torn from Castiel’s throat quite against his will.  He resented it for escaping at all.  “I don’t sell my copies of SORRY!, I was merely attempting literary irony.”

                  “Oh, too bad, it’s pretty cool.”

                  “Limited edition.”

                  “…”

                  “…”

                  “So, do you scare all the customers away like this or am I just special?” Charlie was still smiling, Castiel could hear it in her voice.

                  “You are according to the Ancient Greeks.”

                  “Oh really?”

                  “They believed that red-headed people were soulless demons who fed on the blood of others during the night.”

                  “…Oh my god, I’m the ancient people’s Edward Cullen…”

                  “I do not understand that reference.”

                  “And you own a bookstore.”

                  “Yes.”

                  “Does that make you classy or just imply you live under a rock?”

                  Castiel propped the SORRY! box up so it obscured the view of pesky customers. Charlie bopped it with a fingertip and it fell over.  Castiel sighed and took another deep swallow of tea. 

                  “Can I buy my books now?” Charlie finally asked.

                  Castiel sighed again, “Very well, if you insist on contributing to the capitalistic perversion of the Christmas holiday via excessive-gift-giving, I shall not stand in your way.” 

                  “Okay, Scrooge.”

                  Castiel snorted, “That is exactly what Dean said,” he paused in the motion of grabbing one of her books and narrowed his eyes at her, “You aren’t going to ruffle my hair, are you?”

                  “Aww, does Dean do that?  That’s so sweet,” Charlie teased.

                  Castiel gave her a flat look, “You sound like my Aunt.  And she is quite probably insane.”

                  Charlie snorted, “I work with Dean, I have to give him grief, even if it’s vicariously through you.” 

                  Castiel narrowed his eyes at her once more for good measure, took another swig of his coffee and resumed scanning her books.  “I am not Scrooge-like.  I merely endorse a more traditional view of Christmas traditions.”

                  “Really?”

                  “Yes.”

                  “…”

                  “…”

                  “This is the part where you explain yourself, oh Great Jedi Master.”

                  “…You and Dean are disturbingly similar.  Do you recklessly fling yourself into danger as well?”

                  “Nope, I’m a total scaredy-cat.  Although a quest or two would be pretty cool.” 

                  “Hmm. To answer your question, I prefer quality over quantity when it comes to traditions such as gift-giving.”

                  “Aww, you’re such a softie.”

                  “…”

                  “With a seriously terrifying glare and a bad case of laryngitis. Seeing as I don’t want to be infected with your illness as some form of divine retribution, I’ll just pay for these things and leave.”

                  Castiel raised his eyebrows at her and told her the total cost of her purchases.

                  She scooped up her bag and turned to exit the store. Castiel sighed in relief and allowed himself to release the cough he had been feeling building up in his chest all morning.  Closing his eyes and focusing on returning his breaths to their regular equilibrium, he almost missed the sounds of Charlie’s converses treading their way back to the front desk. He did hear the thud of her bag of books hitting the ground.  Curious, he opened his eyes to find her standing behind the counter, rolling her sleeves up.

                  Not entirely sure a trite ‘what are you doing here’ really sufficed to cover the situation, Castiel just stared at her, befuddled.

                  Charlie glanced up at him, gave a tiny little awkward shrug and said, “I didn’t realize you were actually sick, I was kidding about the laryngitis thing. So, even though you’re incredibly bitchy and rude to diss my Christmas traditions so cruelly, I’m going to help you run your store today.  Capsice?” She grinned a full white-toothed grin right at him. 

                  Castiel smiled softly, “Thank you.  And…sorry.  For any unintentional ‘diss’.”

                  Charlie laughed, “We’re cool, bro.”

…

                  Meanwhile, Dean, Sam, Gabe and Claire were exhausted, albeit for very different reasons.  The brothers had been knit-hat-attacked, glitter-trapped, tinsel-assaulted and generally become the victims of every single Gabe Shurley Christmas prank in the book. Gabe and Clarie were exhausted because tormenting your friends and neighbors is hard freaking work.

                  The four reunited in the food court looking for all the world like a kindergartener’s first attempt at a homemade Christmas card. Dean was pissed, Sam was exasperated, Gabe had a stitch in his side from all the running and Claire was a little worried about everyone’s reaction to the morning’s events. They all moved to speak at once, but the second everyone’s eyes met and they truly took in the Christmassy carnage that had been wrought on their wardrobes and dignity, it was all over.

                  They didn’t stop laughing for over twenty minutes. 

…

                  The four shoppers (who did actually manage to get some shopping done in between seasonal fashion disasters) trooped into the bookstore tired and footsore at around four pm.  Castiel gave them all one long, slow, appraising look; then turned back to his thermos of tea. “Don’t get glitter on my first editions.” 

                  Sam slid away from the bookcase he had been considering leaning against.

                  “What’s up, bitches?” Charlie chirped from where she was helping someone find a book. 

                  Dean grinned, “Hey Charlie.” 

                  “Who’s Charlie?” Gabe asked. 

                  “Dean’s soulless female twin,” Castiel referenced his earlier conversation with Charlie, without looking up from the book in his hand, struggling with the urge to cough.  Thank god Claire had been planning on visiting Chuck and Becky in a few days.  He just needed to hold it together until then. For Claire. 

                  Castiel momentarily closed his eyes, letting the mild cacophony of his family and friends slide over and around him as his head throbbed, his throat burned and his bones ached.  Someone bumped into his side and he resisted the urge to lean on that solid, warm person. It was going to be a long few days.

…

                  Dean blinked and looked down as he felt a slight weight lean against him. James Novak was sagging his seat slightly, eyes closed, just barely leaning against Dean.  Concerned, Dean reached down to push his friend upright. He only got a fleeting sense of J’s skin being way too hot and dry for a normal, healthy person before blue eyes were snapping open and a dark-haired head was firmly centered above narrow shoulders, away from the person it had been using as a pillow.

                  Years of older-brother instincts buzzed to life in Dean’s subconscious. His friend was sick and obviously being incredibly stupid about it.  But how was Dean going to fix it? 

…

                  Dean did not end up being able to fix it that day or the next or even the day after that.  As if some sort of predator-prey instinct had dinged in James’ subconscious, he seemed to go out of his way to avoid Dean, not matter what Dean tried to do to confront him on the issue of his obvious (to Dean, anyway), illness.  It was very frustrating for the elder Winchester.

                  Sammy was no help, “You _thought_ he _might_ have a fever? After like, half a second? Dean, don’t you think you’re getting a little weird about this?  I get that you’re protective of your friends and your family, but even if he is sick, Jim can handle it on his own.” 

                  Damn logical little brothers. 

…

                  Castiel said goodbye to Claire early Wednesday morning, three days after the Great Shopping Debacle.  Claire, who had never been happier to be on winter break, hugged her ‘dad’ and ran off to the car where Chuck and Becky waited for her without even a backwards glance. Of course she was excited, Chuck and Becky were the closest things she had to grandparents and now she was spending four whole days with them in Seattle before coming home for Christmas with Castiel and Gabe. 

                  Castiel watched her go, a soft smile on his face and a raging headache stabbing through his eyes.  Sweat trickled down his back and his collar felt too tight.  His throat still felt like someone had lined it with sandpaper and his chest was sore from suppressed coughs.  His body ached and his right hand was practically useless, the nerve damage, fatigue and body aches rendering it little more than a decorative piece of meat conveniently attached to his wrist. 

                  One really must admire the sheer willpower it took Castiel to drag himself through each day acting completely normal.  Or at least, as abnormal as usual. 

                  Claire out of eyesight, Castiel sighed gently, mentally wished her a good trip and dragged himself back into the bookstore.  At least he had managed to accidentally-on-purpose hire Charlie to work part-time for the rest of Christmas break.  Maybe he could sneak back to the overstock room and sleep sometime in the afternoon.  That would be nice.

                  What a horridly pea-soup day this was.

…

                  Castiel felt more and more wretched as the day crawled onwards. Giving up on continuing to coherently interact with other humans, he closed the store and let Charlie go home early, despite her protests and promises to bring him soup later and demands that he call her if he needed help.  Cas spent the rest of the day in the back of the shop, ostensibly doing inventory and mostly hiding from anyone who might want to talk to him.

                  Reality seemed to bend and twist around him.  He may have slept a bit curled up on the floor, the clipboard cradled in his arms like a metallic teddy bear, he really didn’t know. He didn’t recognize the shift and play of the light as it changed, leaking out of the sky and letting the shadows trickle in as night began to sneak up and overtake the sun. Instead he foggily scrolled down the list on the clipboard in front of him, taking what felt like eons to make every pencil mark, centuries to decide on each little line of graphite.

                  And then his right hand finally gave out and the clipboard clattered to the floor.  Suddenly furious with his own weakness and brokenness, Castiel flung the pencil across the room and slammed his fist into the wall behind him before slowly sliding down that very surface to sit on the floor, coughing and resisting the urge to throw up as the room spun around him. 

                  He didn’t remember much after that for several hours.

…

                  Dean heard the crash of the clipboard falling by pure, dumb luck. He was walking down the staircase all four apartments shared, the staircase that ran right above the bookstore’s storeroom.  Not sure what was going on, but all police instincts buzzing, Dean raced down the steps, slowing momentarily for the corner; then dashing for the storeroom door. It stood ajar, Dean unceremoniously shoved it open.

                  Dean had never seen James Novak like this. It seemed somehow wrong that such a large personality should be confined to the small, barely-conscious frame leaning against that wall.  Kneeling down, Dean gently placed a hand against the flushed forehead, feeling the fever burn beneath his fingers.

                  “Dammit, J,” Dean grumped just as his friend coughed dryly and mumbled something unintelligible, “You’re burning up, buddy.  Come on, wake up.  We need to get you upstairs.  Come on, J, wake up for me.” 

                  James murmured more nonsense, although this time it sounded like names.

                  “What?” Dean asked, forcing himself not to sound too worried, needing to stay calm for his friend. 

                  “Luci…fer…”

                  “Okay, whatever you say,” Dean decided to roll with it, whatever ‘it’ was.

                  More mumbling, blue eyes twitching beneath heavy lids then a sudden shudder as he seemed to shake himself awake, one clear word dropping off his lips.

                  “Father-!”

                  His eyes began to drift closed, but Dean grabbed his shoulders, “No way, stay with me, J.  We’re going upstairs and your obnoxious cousin is going to help me take care of you until my brother closes his practice for the night and can treat whatever’s going on here. Okay, so just stay with me, J, got it?”

                  “…Jimmy…”

                  Dean decided to humor him, slinging one of J’s arms over his shoulders so he could help him stand up as he did.  “Is that what they called you when you were a kid? Jimmy?”

                  “Cas…tiel…”

                  “I have no clue what that means, J.” they were walking now, Dean guiding them, bearing about half of James’ weight. 

                  “…Jimmy…please…”

                  “Okay, Jimmy, come on, we’re halfway up the stairs.”

…

                  Castiel was lost in a fog, there was someone helping him, a kind voice, a strong voice.  A very amber presence. But he still felt small and scared and very much like he had as a child.  He wanted his big brother, Lucifer.  He wanted his Father.  He wanted his twin. He wanted to be Castiel again. He wanted all those people who had left him. 

                  Lucifer.

                  Father.

                  Jimmy.

                  They all left eventually. 

                  Even his own name had left him.

                  But for now he had the strong, warm, amber presence beside him and he was temporarily not alone. 

…

                  Gabe nearly had a heart attack when Dean brought his cousin to the door. The eldest Winchester was almost completely supporting the exhausted, feverish man.  Gabe had known Jim had a cold.  It was obvious, not matter how much the little twerp thought he was hiding it, but this was something else entirely.  This was the flu, or bronchitis, or something else equally nasty. How had he hid _this_ so well, the little…

                  Ugh.

                  Gabe helped Dean haul James’ feverish ass into the bathroom where between the two of them they managed to thoroughly soak the dark-haired man with frigid water, trying to bring the fever down and wake him up a bit. After he was dry, a bit more lucid and wrapped up in pjs Gabe filched from the Novak apartment (universal building key for the win!), they covered him in blankets and tucked him into Gabe’s guest bed where he curled up and promptly went to sleep.

                  “I’ve got to go get Sammy.  He’ll fix this,” Dean sighed, running a tired hand down his face.

                  Gabe made a wordless sound of agreement.

                  Dean moved to leave then paused, “If J starts mumbling again, just talk to him. It seems to calm him down when he’s half-awake like that.”

                  “Mumbling?” Gabe asked, mind fuzzy and vague from the shock and stress of the afternoon. 

                  “Yeah, he asks for people.  Lucifer, Father, keeps saying ‘Jimmy’ over and over, I think it was a childhood nickname or something.  I called him that for a bit, it seemed to humor him.”

                  Unbeknownst to Dean, at that moment a lightning bolt struck Gabriel with an epiphany. Not sure what to do with the new information that had begun to swim through his brain, Gabe answered vaguely, “Lucifer’s his older brother, he’s in jail now, white-collar crime gone bad, and his dad’s been missing since the kid was eight.  Not a happy family.”        

                  Dean made a sympathetic grunt of agreement, glanced over one last time at his sick friend, and left to go get Sam. 

                  As soon as the door clicked shut, Gabe walked tentatively, slowly, delicately over to where his cousin lay, curled on his side, facing away from Gabriel. Gabe looked down on the dark hair, sticking up in sweat-slicked points, at the flushed face and the barest sliver of blue peering out from lowered eyelids.

                  Could he have been wrong for all these years?  Nerves swirled in Gabe’s stomach that had no right to be there.

                  No time like the present.  Slowly, gingerly, Gabe sat down on the edge of the bed and softly said, “Hey, Castiel.”

                  He could feel the slight tremors rattling their way through the bedframe as his cousin’s body went rigid.

                  “Fuck you, Gabe,” Castiel hissed out between clenched teeth.

                  Gabe didn’t know whether to smile for the cousin who had just come back from the dead, or weep for the memory of Jimmy Novak.  In the end he did a bit of both. 


	13. We Are Who We Are (and we have better grammar than Ke$ha)

**Chapter 12: We Are Who We Are (and we have better grammar than Ke$ha)**

_Previously on Half-Price Gemini:_

Could he have been wrong for all these years? Nerves swirled in Gabe’s stomach that had no right to be there. 

                  No time like the present.  Slowly, gingerly, Gabe sat down on the edge of the bed and softly said, “Hey, Castiel.”

                  He could feel the slight tremors rattling their way through the bedframe as his cousin’s body went rigid.

                  “Fuck you, Gabe,” Castiel hissed out between clenched teeth.

                  Gabe didn’t know whether to smile for the cousin who had just come back from the dead, or weep for the memory of Jimmy Novak.  In the end he did a bit of both. 

…

                  “Why?” Gabe’s voice tore through the stillness of the moment, shredding any illusion of peace that might have hung over them. 

                  Castiel coughed, and his voice, when it answered, was raspy. “Why what?”

                  “Why…all of this?  Why didn’t you just fucking _tell me?”_

The pause stretched so long Gabe began to wonder if his sick cousin hadn’t fallen asleep. But no, there was his voice, rough and shredded.  “I was afraid. And alone.  And I had a child to care for.” 

                  “I could have -.” Gabe wasn’t really sure what he was planning on saying and under different circumstances might have been grateful to Castiel for interrupting him.

                  “Could have done what, Gabriel?  What could you have done?”   Castiel’s voice was a harsh bark. 

                  “I could have been there,” Gabe said quietly, not looking at his cousin, staring down at the floor. 

                  Castiel sighed.  “You already were there.”

                  Gabe smiled a bit, even though his eyes (the traitors) had begun to water again.  He reached out a hand and rested it gently on the other man’s shoulder.  A gentle squeeze, and then a release as he dropped his hands back into his lap.  More silence as the moment ticked by. 

                  “I miss being Castiel,” the other man said quietly, so soft Gabe almost didn’t catch it. 

                  “I missed you,” Gabe told him, “I really fucking missed you. And now I really fucking miss Jimmy…but the guy I knew as Jimmy is still here…and I don’t even know anymore. I guess I miss who we all were as kids. You know?  I miss back then.” 

                  “Yeah…” Castiel’s voice was breathy with sleepiness. 

                  “You tired, cuz?” Gabe asked gently.

                  “Yes...”

                  “Okay, just rest.  Doc Winchester’ll be here in a minute.  Just rest, kid.”

                  Only the soft breaths of a sleeping person answered Gabe’s last sentence.

…

                  A few hours later the patient was grudgingly awake and Sam was rubbing his forehead, trying to ward off a headache. 

                  “Let me get this straight, you don’t _remember_ if you got a _flu shot?_ ”

                  James shrugged vaguely.  “It was of no great importance at the time.”

                  “At the time?” Sam repeated dumbly, awestruck by how cavalier his neighbor was being about this whole problem. 

                  There was a short silence broken only by the dull thwack of Dean lightly smacking the back of James’ head. 

                  “Hey, no smacking the patient around!” Sam ordered.

                  “Yeah, there are nicer ways to hit on people,” Gabe said with a grin.

                  Dean didn’t seem to be paying attention to either of them. His focus was completely consumed by chastising James. “You’re an idiot,” Dean informed his best friend, tone dry and steady as if he were discussing something as undebatable as the sky being blue. 

                  “I take issue with that,” James said softly, but there was not venom in his voice.  It was as if being sick had sapped all the fight from his bones.  That in and of itself had Sam concerned. 

                  “Fine, okay,” the young doctor sighed, “You can’t remember if you got a flu shot or not.  Okay. I still think this is the flu, with maybe a minor sinus infection.  So I’ll just hit you with antibiotics and find out if you got a goddamned flu shot.” Okay, so maybe Sam’s verbal self-control weakened a bit there at the end, but he was justified! 

                  “How, Samsquatch?” Gabe asked, “It’s not like we can just ask his stalker.”

                  James glared at Gabriel, grabbing a pillow and hitting him in the head with it.

                  “Stalker?” Curiosity piqued, the Winchesters stooped low enough to speak in sync.

                  However, it appeared that little to no more information would be forthcoming as Gabriel and James were locked in a furious staring contest that communicated more information than a script of Shakespearean proportions. “Umm, yeah, Jimbo used to have a stalker,” he glanced back at his cousin as if confirming that he was allowed to share this information, “A few years ago.  Real creepy, named…um…did we ever find out her name?”

                  “No,” James offered with a long-suffering sigh, “She called herself ‘Fate’ in all of her attempts to contact me.”   

                  “Yeah, but she fell off the map a while ago, so it’s not like we can ask her or anything…”

                  “No, but I’ve got a better idea,” Dean offered. 

                  “Yeah?” Gabe half-challenged. 

                  “Call Claire, ask her,” Dean suggested. 

                  James was obviously _not_ a fan of this plan, as evidenced by his apparent attempts to smother Dean with the same pillow he had been bludgeoning Gabriel with.  However, in his fever-weakened state it was more pathetic than anything else. 

                  Sam decided it was best to call Claire while the other people in the room were occupied. 

…

                  Claire’s eyebrows rose at the name flashing across her (ringing) cell phone’s screen. 

                  Sam Winchester.

                  Huh. That was a little odd.

                  Wondering what could have necessitated Sam calling her instead of Castiel or Gabe, she pressed the ‘answer’ button.  “Hello?” 

                  _“Hi Claire,”_ Sam’s voice was staticky and there seemed to be a great deal of background noise. Not really surprising, considering the people who lived in their building. 

                  “Hi Sam.”

                  She could hear him draw breath to say something when suddenly he paused and his voice grew fainter, as if he were yelling at someone in the background. _“Dean, give J back the pillow!”_

Claire distantly heard the words _‘he hit me with it!’_ and _‘you deserved it, you vermillion…’_ the addition of Gabe’s voice shouting over the other two finally succeeded in dissolving all background sounds into meaningless white noise.

                  _“Sorry about that,”_ Sam’s voice had returned.

                  “It’s okay,” Claire assured him, “But, what’s going on? Other than the usual chaos. No offense, but you aren’t really the one who normally calls me, apparent pillow fight nonwithstanding.”

                  _“None taken, and Claire, I don’t want you to freak out… but apparent pillow fight nonwithstanding, I did call you for a serious reason.”_

                  Claire could feel the dread beginning to pool in her stomach. She was proud her voice didn’t shake when she asked, “What serious reason?”

                  _“Well, there’s no easy way to say this, but, um, your dad kind of collapsed this afternoon.  He’s fine; Dean found him and got him upstairs, he and Gabe have been taking care of him.  But he’s feverish, dehydrated and not in the best state.  I need to know if he got a flu shot this year or not. If he has then it’s probably bacterial, not viral and I can just hit it with antibiotics and be done. If it’s flu it’s a bit more complicated.”_

Claire gritted her teeth, _‘Damn Castiel and his inability to take care of himself.  Did he think I couldn’t take care of him if he was sick?  Did he think I wasn’t mature enough?  Did he think that I wouldn’t help him?’_ the thoughts swirled in her brain, voiceless and bitter.  She managed to squash them down just enough to respond to Sam.  “No, he didn’t.  He never does. We don’t have health insurance so he just pays for mine.” _‘the self-sacrificing idiot,’_ she added silently. 

                  _“Okay, Claire, thank you for your help,”_ Sam said gently, as if he realized just how fragile her emotional state was at this particular moment. 

                  “Do I need to come back? Because I will.  If Dad needs my help I’m coming straight back”

                  Sam almost got to answer; he might have squished out a syllable or two, when Claire heard the crackle-click of his phone being snatched out of his hands.

                  _“Hey there, Claire, it’s Dean. Listen, J really wants to talk to you and I think letting you two chat might be the only chance I get to help my little brother escape your dad’s wrath.  J’s pretty pissed Sam dragged you into this. Aaand now he’s glaring at me. See ya, kid, here’s your dad.”_

Hearing Castiel’s voice, so soft and so weak nearly make Claire cry.  She wasn’t used to him getting sick and sounding completely exhausted.  She wasn’t used to him really being human. 

                  _“In rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated,”_ he said dryly. 

                  “Hi Dad,” Claire sighed.

                  _“I am perfectly functional, in case you were wondering,”_ Castiel attempted to reassure her, but the coughs that crackled through the phone line immediately following his statement shot that horse in the face. 

                  “DAD!” Claire snapped, “Why do you _always_ do this?!  You never let anyone take care of you, and you sure as hell don’t take care of yourself! What if this was pneumonia? Huh?  Or something worse?  You could _die_ doing shit like this, ignoring illness cuz you don’t wanna be sick.  Well, I’ve got news for you, I like you healthy! I want you to _be_ ok, no be _pretending_ to be ok! Got it?!” Claire knew she sounded a little bit hysterical, and would probably later get in trouble for cursing at her uncle, but she didn’t care, dammit.  Castiel needed to know that this wasn’t okay.  She didn’t need to worry about him every time she went out of town. 

                  Castiel sighed again, a raspy, crackly sound through the phone’s speakers _.  “There are some things you protect your children from, Claire. One is caring for a sick parent.”_

                  Claire began to protest, but Castiel cut her off, _“I spent my teenage years looking after a chronically ill woman who barely recognized me half the time.  You will not play nursemaid to me the way I played nursemaid to her.”_

“The common cold isn’t anything like that!  I just want to help you!” 

                  _“And you do, more than you know, sweetheart.  But some things you can’t help me with and some things you shouldn’t have to. Have fun at Chuck and Becky’s. I love you.”_

“Dad!” Claire was frustrated beyond belief; he was being such a stubborn ass! 

                  _“Stay_ _gold, Claire.  I’ll see you soon.  I’ll be fine.”_

Claire sighed in dramatic teenaged frustration, “I love you, Dad.”

                  _“Love you too, sweetheart.”_

                  And with that, Castiel hung up the phone.  Claire rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, trying not to be too frustrated with the man.  He was trying to do the right thing, after all.  Then an idea occurred to her, a small smile trickling into her lips, she pulled up Dean’s number on her contact list and texted him.

                  _Send me updates on his statues. God knows he’s not going to tell the truth._

Dean responded quickly. 

                  **Will do, kid.**

…

                  Castiel closed his eyes, relishing the silence, trying to will the pounding of his head to fade just a little bit.  It wasn’t working.  It was truly kind of the Winchesters and Gabriel to spend so much time fussing over him, really, but… they were loud.  And chaotic. Behind the lids of eyes, in the soft darkness of his mind, Castiel imagined them all as zipping, fluttering bursts of color.  Like star-fire they exploded through life, leaving behind trails of warmth and light and color. And Castiel loved it. He truly, honestly did. But…

                  He let his eyelids relax, felt them slide up just a bit so smudges of color and the vague ideas of shapes could sneak their way into his vision. He was still in Gabe’s apartment, still lying on the guest bed, still riding the rolling waves of fever. Sam had gone home hours ago after leaving strict instructions on The Care and Keeping of a Sick Person. Castiel hadn’t really paid attention, comfortable in the knowledge that between the two of them, Dean and Gabe would remember everything verbatim.  One of the more unfortunate side effects of having smart friends. They remembered doctor’s orders. Especially the ones you were trying to conveniently forget. 

                  Dean had stayed.  And stayed. He hung out with Gabe some, talking quietly when Castiel was ‘asleep’.  He could hear their voices, rolling through his dreams, weaving their way into the landscape of his fevered mind.  It was comforting.  Not that they needed to know that. 

                  After several rounds of bickering, two thumb wars and one Great Spatula Incident Gabe and Dean managed to cook some vaguely edible soup-like-thing. The two of them took it to Gabe’s guest room and ate dinner camped out on Castiel’s bed.  And Dean still stuck around.  He helped with the dishes and then just sort of _settled_ in the sick room.  He read quietly when Castiel was asleep and when his friend was hazily awake he read out loud.  Castiel liked his voice.  It was active and expressive and warmed by a true interest in the words themselves. Although when Dean tried to read one of the _AngelFall_ books Castiel smacked him with a pillow.  Dean may not know it, but as the (pen-name-protected) author of that particular bit of printed drivel, Castiel did not want to suffer through a dramatic re-reading.

                  Hours dribbled by like this.  Castiel began to fade even farther out of wakefulness, missing whole pages of narration as he fought and lost the battle to remain consistently awake. The world was fuzzy and sleep-slowed, but Castiel heard when Dean stopped reading, heard the soft crinkle of a bookmark being slid between pages, and heard the carpet-muffled-shuffle of Dean getting to his feet.  He distantly, foggily, felt Dean’s fingers on his hair, stroking it back from his too-hot forehead like he was a cat or a small child.  If his friend said anything, Castiel did not remember it. He fell asleep to the soft touch on his hair, warm and safe and cared-for as he hadn’t been since he was a very small child. 

                  But now he was awake and apparently incapable of returning to blissful unconsciousness.  So instead he lay there in the peace and tranquility, trapped in the half-lucid state of one who is neither truly aware or truly adrift.  A sliver of bright light sliced across his half-vision, widening as a small frame slid through and into the room.  Gabe.  Odd that he was still awake. 

                  “Hey Cassie.”  Yes, all doubt was gone. It was most certainly Gabe. Only Gabe would call him _that._

                  “Hello Gabrielle.”

                  “Unkind, Sicky, unkind.” 

                  Castiel was swiftly discovering one of the few benefits of severe illness: the complete inability to give two shits about filtering your thoughts before you spoke. “Justice is swift and cruel.” 

                  “Wow, sick you = sassy you.  Good to know.”  Interesting, Gabe sounded… _relieved_. As if he were glad to be back to banter and foolishness and safe from the deeper, murkier waters of the past and all the emotions therein. 

                  There was a moment of silence. 

                  Castiel, not really knowing why, but somehow feeling that the void needed to be filled, began speaking.  Just words, a story, really, nothing he had planned, something he had only vaguely remembered until this exact point in time.

                  “When we were younger we used to play a game, Jimmy and I. We’d wear each other’s clothes and try our hardest to pretend that we were the same person. We’d run around that huge damn house our father built and we’d lose ourselves in all those empty hallways. And every time we ran into someone else in that big, cold, empty fucking _mausoleum_ of a house we’d pretend we were looking for each other. I’d say I was looking for Castiel and Jimmy’d say he was looking for Jimmy… And one day we were playing our game, we must have been eight or so, it was right after our father disappeared and nothing was really _right_ anymore…” Castiel paused as a cough ripped itself out of his chest. He lay there, dazed and foggy for a few seconds after it passed, only beginning to speak after Gabe prompted him.

                  “And?” Gabe asked tentatively. 

                  “And…” Castiel sighed, “And I ran into Lucifer.  Literally ran into him.  If he hadn’t caught me I would have fallen down the stairs. And he asked me where I’d been and where the hell was my brother and did I know that we had been gone for two days and which twin was I anyway…and I burst into tears.” Castiel sighed, staring into space, seeing seventeen-year-old Lucifer’s pale blue eyes peering curiously down at him all over again.  The light shining from those eyes…it had been…crystal blue, yes, crystal blue. Light and clear and gentle. That had been before. Before the light twisted and burned and changed into something Castiel no longer recognized as his older brother.

                  “Is there a moral to this story or are you rambling?” Gabriel voice trampled through Castiel’s train of thought, dragging it back to the path it had been traveling. 

                  With a small cough Castiel began speaking again, “I just stood there, a little eight-year-old kid, crying my eyes out because for a moment I had honestly forgotten which twin I was.  For a few terrifying seconds I had no idea who I was and it was so horrifically _lonely_.   I suppose you could say I realized two things right then and both of them were just a bit too much for my little brain.  One, Jimmy and I weren’t one entity.  We were two and I was alone right now.  Two, I was alone and I had no idea who I was.  Lucifer had no idea what to do. He didn’t know why I was crying and he didn’t have a clue what to do with a crying child anyway.  We stood there for a while.   And then Lucifer started to…apologize.  Over and over. For what I’m not really sure. I don’t think he was totally sure either.  And there we stood, he apologizing and me crying.  And then Jimmy found us and I _knew._ I knew that I was Castiel just from knowing for a fact that he was Jimmy.” 

                  Silence draped its sleepy self around them for a few seconds.

                  “You and your brother wandered around that house for _two days_ before they went looking for you?” Gabriel demanded.

                  “My father had just disappeared.  Mother was still in her room.  Things were rather...”

                  Gabriel cut him off before he could continue.  Castiel was glad, he wasn’t really sure he could find the words drifting through his fever-fog to accurately describe just what those first few days after his father left had been like. 

                  “Yeah, I know,” Gabe said, “I wasn’t supposed to hear about it, but I did. Perk of being an only child. It’s a lot easier to listen in on parental conversations.” 

                  “We just wandered into the kitchen and ate if we were hungry,” Castiel continued, “It was easy to lose yourself in that house.  But that’s what no one tells you. That losing yourself feels like absolute shit.” 

                  “Yeah,” Gabriel whispered.  They both understood that the story had been about more than a childhood game gone wrong.

                  “I have never been one to cope with tragedy well.  I have been reliably informed that I am rather…extreme,” Castiel murmured, sleep beginning to creep up on him. 

                  “Join the club, bro, join the club,” Gabe chuckled tightly, “And you’re pretty fucking amazing, all things considered.” 

                  Castiel was already asleep, but despite the fact that Gabe’s words were a fuzzy blur, he smiled ever-so-slightly. 

…

                  Castiel awoke to the smell of coffee.  He blinked blearily up at the angelic being holding that most holy of beverages right in front of his nose.  “Hello Dean,” he rasped out, past his aching throat and stuffed up nose.

                  “Morning, J,” Dean grinned down at him, “Your midgety cousin says you need this to function?” He held up the sacred caffeine with a crooked smirk.

                  “Gimme.” Castiel was not proud of the fact that fever had apparently reduced him to toddler-hood.  But he could live with that.  He _couldn’t_ live without the coffee Dean was practically dangling in front of him. 

                  “Pushy, pushy,” Dean snorted, but handed over the coffee anyway. A good choice. Castiel was not above physical violence to get what he wanted.  And what he wanted right now had the consistency of motor oil and enough caffeine to kill a whale. 

                  Castiel slunk-shuffle-squirmed his way into a position that could be charitably described as the inbred second-cousin of ‘seated’. He curled around the mug and took small, steadying sips from the brew therein.  Dean moved to leave, Castiel glared at him over the rim of his mug. “Why are you leaving?” Aaaand apparently he was still a needy toddler.  In the small portion of his brain that was still rational Castiel was horrified at how pathetic he was when sick. 

                  “Unlike you, Sleeping Beauty, I drink coffee that doesn’t have paint-peeling superpowers.  Coffee that is waiting for me on the kitchen counter if I get there before Gabe.”

                  Castiel contemplated this answer, deemed it satisfactory, and nodded. “I assume you know to come back.”

                  “Do I?” Dean asked all-too-innocently, lips twitching as they resisted the urge to smirk.

                  “It’s not nice to tease a sick person,” Castiel grumbled.

                  Dean sighed, smiling crookedly, “I’ll be back as soon as I get my coffee, buddy.  You won’t be alone.”

                  “I’m perfectly fine with being alone,” Castiel huffed.

                  “Of course you are.”

                  “Are you still here?”

                  “Very convincing, J.”

                  “Thank you.” 

                  Castiel was sure Dean rolled his eyes on the way out.  That was fine.  He was coming back, after all.  Castiel would not be alone.

…

                  “How is he?” Gabriel asked when Dean returned to the kitchen.

                  “Sick.”

                  “Your eloquent description and verbose prose overwhelms me.”

                  Dean shrugged, “What more do you want, Pipsqueak?  He’s sick and he’s lonely.”

                  “Shit,” Gabe muttered, “I thought he’d be lonely.”

                  “Why?” Dean asked, brows furrowed, “He’s practically a hermit when he’s healthy.”

                  Gabe sighed and ran a hand through his hair.  “He was talking about his twin last night.”

                  Dean nearly choked on the coffee he had been gulping, “What?”

                  Gabe ripped a bite out of the cheese danish he held in one hand, gesturing with it as he spoke through a mouthful of crumbs, “Twin. Identical.  Been dead for about eight years.” 

                  “Shit,” Dean murmured, commiserating in past tragedy.  And he had thought losing his dad and his uncle was hard. What kind of hell must it be to lose a twin?

                  “Yeah,” Gabe sighed, scarfing another chunk of cheesy pastry, “It’s kinda why I called you, Commander Plaid, I’ve gotta be downstairs working the bakery all day, Christmas break rush and all, and I need someone to keep Jamie-boy company. Think you can do that without breaking something or causing an international incident?”

                  Dean shrugged, electing to ignore the dig at his wardrobe, plaid was _badass_ and no one would tell him otherwise.  “The ‘Swedish Embassy’ is out sick,” he said, gesturing towards Cas’ room with an ironically cocked eyebrow, apparently Sam had not been the only person subjected to Castiel’s rather…unorthodox (and vaguely Scandinavian) phone-answering system, “How hard can it be to maintain world peace?”

…

                  Castiel Novak managed to only cause a small international incident during his time as bedridden sick person and Dean Winchester managed to only cause two small cooking-related fires in the interim, it was considered to be the best they could do given the circumstances.  (Despite the fact that Dean had somehow managed to actually _burn_ a _pot of water_ , an accomplishment that earned him lifetime barring from Gabe’s kitchen.)  The sad part about all the shenanigans was that between Dean and Castiel, Dean was the skilled chef (he could produce more than five dishes and unlike Castiel’s culinary experiments, they did _not_ all involve some permutation of ramen noodles, honey or applesauce.)

                  And so Castiel healed and Claire returned in time to see him finally up and about (albeit wandering around in pajamas and a bathrobe attempting to hide Dean’s copy of ‘Fellowship of the Ring’ so he wouldn’t have to listen to all that damn tree imagery, but still, mobility was good).  Several days’ of bed rest and a steady diet of increasingly cliché novels (he and Dean had made a game out of finding the most melodramatic and absurd books and reading them out loud) did wonders for both Castiel’s health and his disposition.  Sam was relieved.  He didn’t want to have to hospitalize his workaholic neighbor.  

                  And if Gabe seemed a little off, a little quieter than usual, a little wary around his cousin…well, it was a busy time of year for a bakery. He must be stressed and tired.

                  Life began to speed back up again as Christmas approached. Castiel was almost fully functional (and according to him, had been for the past week, not that anyone, least of all Sam, the actual medical professional, agreed with him), Claire was busy running around with Krissy and Ben decorating trees and making cookies and throwing snowballs at each other and whatever else thirteen-year-olds did, Gabe was actually working for once (not that he would ever admit to such a heinous crime as _working hard_ ), Dean was already lesson-planning for next semester (when he wasn’t fussing over Castiel), and Sam was combating the sudden influx of colds and sniffles amongst his younger patients.  Christmas was in the air and life was as good as it could get. 

                  If Gabe was still trying to properly mourn Jimmy, if he was just a little eaten up by the thought of that poor man buried alone and un-mourned, if he was just a bit distracted by the heartbreaking visual of eight-year-old Castiel sobbing, unsure of who he was, well, no one really needed to know that.

                  But Castiel did know. 

                  And somehow, knowing that there was someone else out there who _knew_ and who _understood_ all of the thoughts and feelings swirling through his brain…it helped.

                  “Man this family is fucked up,” Gabe muttered to himself as he pulled a tray of cupcakes out of the oven, watching Kevin serve pie and coffee to Dean, Castiel and Sam.  And there was no way in _hell_ that Castiel actually heard him, but Gabriel saw his cousin smile and nod slightly in acknowledgement of the comment anyway. 

…

                  It was a long -unspoken truth within the Novak family that _The Lion King_ solved all problems.  It was the fix-it movie, the bastion of sanity, normalcy and family unity within the storm that was the Real World.  Claire had grown up with this simple truth so deeply ingrained in her being that it could not have been more a part of her if it had been tattooed to her forehead. 

                  In some strange alchemy of the mind, _The Lion King_ had long-ago morphed into more than just The Family Movie. It was now also The Family _Christmas_ Movie. A Christmas Carol? It’s a Wonderful Life? A Christmas Story? Elf?  All those needed to be watched early in December or on Christmas Day itself.  Every Christmas Eve since Claire’s first Christmas in Orcastle they had marathoned all three of the Lion King movies. 

                  “Why Lion King?” Sam had asked when Castiel informed him of this event.

                  “Rebirth of the spirit,” Castiel answered cryptically, “You’re invited. Bring…something interesting. I really don’t have a preference.”

                  Claire, who had been standing beside her uncle, watching this exchange, saw the perplexed look on Sam’s face.  _He has no idea what to expect,_ she thought wryly.  “It’s not as weird as it sounds, I promise.”

                  “Bring something interesting?” Sam muttered to himself.

                  “Yep,” Claire grinned, not willing to give him any more hints than that. He would have to figure out the rest on his own. 

                  “Something interesting…” Sam was still muttering as he slipped back into his apartment, closing the door behind him. 

                  Castiel had already turned away was heading back to the bookshop. Claire scrambled to catch up.

                  “Has _The Lion King_ become ‘lame’ yet?” Castiel asked as they returned to work. 

                  “Never!” Claire declared, plopping onto the chair next to an oblivious Dean who had built up a fairly impressive stack of books around him.

                  “Am I ‘lame’ yet?” Castiel asked with a teasing quirk of his eyebrow.

                  “Nope,” Claire sing-songed. 

                  “Ah, too bad, I was so looking forward to your teenage rebellious phase,” he replied with a mona lisa smile. 

                  “No you aren’t,” Dean groaned, rubbing his face, “Teenagers…god…they’re demanding.  Here I am slaving away bothering to make their schoolwork interesting and their essays are still total crap.” 

                  “Rather luxurious for ‘slavery’,” Castiel mused, “We at least supply you with a steady stream of coffee and Gabe’s pastries.” 

                  “And this is why you’re my favorite,” Dean grinned, not looking up from his book. 

                  “You just want me for my coffee,” Castiel sighed melodramatically.

                  “And badass cartoon lion movie marathons.” 

                  Castiel laughed and glided off to reshelf books. 

                  “And that there is the closest he gets to ‘Christmas cheer’. His teasing gets less dry and more melodramatic” Claire sighed. 

                  “Badass cartoon lions and free coffee.  I don’t care about any of that other crap,” Dean said seriously, but Claire could see the smile sneaking onto his face, ready to jump out and dazzle them both.

…

                  Christmas Eve found the Winchesters, the Novaks and Gabriel sprawled across the Novak living room in what could only be termed a ‘puppy pile’. Adam had joined them for this event, after being forced to solemnly swear that he would uphold the laws and strictures of the Kingdom of the Lion and that he wouldn’t hog the popcorn.

                  “We really should write that up, the oath is getting rather long,” Claire mused as Adam parroted Gabe in the Lion King Oath-Taking Ceremony of Awesome (as Gabe called it). 

                  “It was all very ivory and simple when I was a child,” Castiel hummed as he divvied up Gabe’s specialty Christmas-only peppermint bark popcorn.

                  “Really?” Claire raised an eyebrow, watching out of the corner of her eye as Gabe ordered Sam to take the oath next.

                  “Yes.” Claire could hear her uncle smile as he said it. Claire held her breath and hoped that he would continue, even as she watched Gabe demand increasingly absurd displays of loyalty from the Winchester trio.  Castiel never, ever, on pain of death, went into any great detail about his childhood.  Sometimes she’d catch him in a _mood_ and he’d drop hints or even tell a harmless story or two.  But for the most part Castiel was as completely a creature of the present as he could make himself. 

                  Claire’s patience was rewarded, Castiel began to speak just as she spotted Dean throw up his hands and walk away from Gabe-the-taskmaster.

                  “The Lion King is my oldest brother, Lucifer’s favorite movie. Ever.  I believe he was born singing ‘The Circle of Life’ and isn’t that a disturbingly burnt sienna thought,” a soft chuckle drifted up from Castiel’s lips as he gathered the now-filled bowls of peppermint-brittle-popcorn, “And as children my brothers and I were forced to promise Lucifer that we would never, on pain of…well, _something,_ Lucifer never actually threatened us, but we were fairly sure that if we broke one of his rules he might break the universe just to get back at us, talk during The Lion King.  All noises must be accidental and they had better not come from one of us.  We could chatter during the sequels all we wanted. But talking during The Lion King...well that put you on the wrong man’s bad side.” 

                  “That was it?  That was the big oath? ‘I solemnly swear that I will shut my cakehole during the Lion King’?” Claire pitched her voice to a level of teasing incredulity, “I’m a bit disappointed, really.  I expected the Lucifer Original would be cooler.”

                  Castiel’s mouth curved into a small half-smile, “I had a rather… _unstructured_ childhood.” 

                  “You’re telling me,” Claire snorted jokingly, watching him out of the corner of her eye, making sure he wasn’t hurt or offended by her words. Castiel could be weird about his family. But her worries appeared to be unfounded as Castiel threw an arm around her shoulders and planted a popcorn bowl in her hands before steering them out to the living area.

                  “J,” Dean groaned, tipping his head back over the back of the couch so he could eye the two Novaks, “You have one crazy-ass cousin.”

                  “Blame the devil.  He is a blood relative, after all.” 

                  To Dean’s credit he simply took that last little cryptic comment in stride. Grumbling he tipped his head back upright, “Your family and those _names._ Who names their kid after _Satan?_   That’s just not cool, man.” 

                  “I feel like I’m missing something,” Sam chimed in with a weary sigh, he was rather used to the strange conversations commonly found in Castiel’s general vicinity. 

                  “Just the fact that Jay-Jay’s big bro is Hellspawn and I’m awesome,” Gabriel informed him, snagging the bowl of popcorn from Claire’s hands as he vaulted over the couch back.  Dean spat half-hearted curses at him while Sam and Adam laughed.  Gabriel preened under the attention, of course. “Now, let’s get this party started!”

                  The couch simply wasn’t big enough for six people.  It wasn’t.  Simple physics could have told anyone that.  It was rather inevitable that Adam would get shoved off and onto the floor, Dean would get kicked in the face at least once, Gabe would try to lay across as many ‘human pillows’ as possible at once, Sam would attempt to graciously self-exile himself to the floor (and only end up kicking someone in the stomach for his troubles) and Claire would turn Castiel into a headrest. Meanwhile Dean perched comfortably on the arm of the sofa, occasionally leaning on Castiel for support when he began losing his fight against gravity.  Adam leaned against the couch, occasionally using Sam’s legs as a makeshift pillow. It was messy and it violated most people’s personal space policies but it was warm and together and _good._

                  Hours later, as the credits rolled on Lion King II, the assemble audience snoozed lightly, and the clock ticked it’s way over to midnight, Claire opened her eyes blearily for moment, sure she couldn’t have just slept through the last minutes of _Lion King II_. She felt rather than saw Castiel’s hand move over to her head and slowly, gently stroke her hair. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” the words rumbled through his chest, she could feel them rattling their way through body before escaping out into the air. 

                  “Merry Christmans, Dad,” she mumbled sleepily, re-burying her face in his shoulder and letting sleep drag her back under. 

…

                  Castiel felt the moment that Claire fell back asleep, felt all the tension leave her body as she slumped against his shoulder.  On his other side Dean was doing much the same, despite his insistence that he so could stay up all night (or at least until midnight). All around him the other members of Castiel’s little patchwork family were gently snoring their way through the beginning of Christmas morning.  He let his head rock back on his neck, resting the back of his skull against the couch and breathing in the moment, letting it twist its gentle, navy-blue self all around him.

                  Just as his eyes began to slide closed the phone rang.

…

                  Dean woke quickly.  He always did. A leftover from a not-so-distant past when his life was ruled by call-outs and funky SWAT team schedules. But despite the fact that his mind was totally clear, despite the fact that his face was pressed rather uncomfortably into the back of a couch, Dean stayed still.  He wasn’t sure why he did it, but Dean didn’t make a sound. Not a peep, not a twitch to indicate he had now rejoined the waking world. 

                  A voice, James’ voice, began to resolve itself in Dean’s mind. J was arguing with someone, probably on the phone.  He kept pausing, an odd pattern of stop-start that Dean only ever heard when someone was in the midst of a particularly nasty telephonic argument.  Keeping his breathing slow and even, doing his dammedest to minimize any excess noise, Dean listened. 

                  “Goddammit, Amelia!”

                  A few minutes of strained silence.

                  “No. No.  Fuck, no!”

                  Another moment, Dean could hear J forcing himself to breathe slowly and evenly, could hear the calm the other man was trying to superimpose on the conversation.

                  “Stay out of it, Amelia, god knows you were perfectly happy doing just that for this long.” 

                  More strained breathing.

                  “No, she’s not, I’m fairly certain you forfeited that right eight years ago.”

                  A weary sigh. 

                  “Just, _stop._ Just stop.  Stop drinking, stop calling me when you’re drinking, stop.  I don’t want to know how you’ve fucked up your life since then. I don’t.  That’s on you.”

                  Another silence, heavier this time.

                  “Don’t call me that, Amelia.  And stop calling me when you’ve hit rock bottom.  I didn’t put you there.” 

                  A tight, boiling sort of silence, like rising thunderclouds.

                  J’s voice, when it comes, is surprisingly even and controlled, with just the tiniest hint of compassion lurking beneath the vitrol, “Merry Christmas.”

                  Click.

                  The phone is hung up and Dean is confused.  But he doesn’t say anything.  Not when he spends the next thirty minutes listening to J pace and mutter and kick innocent stacks of books and DVDs and other bits of creativity-spawned flotsam.  Not when James finally drops back into his place on the couch, sighing and going boneless in a way that screams ‘utterly exhausted’.  No, Dean realizes that J needs this, this moment alone to rage and despair. And in the morning he’ll need family and friends and a true ‘Merry Christmas’ with a heartfelt ‘Peace on Earth’. Because sometimes people’s goodwill towards mankind is used up and they just need to be alone to rage against the dying of the light. 

…

                  The next morning Castiel wakes up to a mug of that most holy of caffeinated beverages being shoved into his hands by a grinning Dean Winchester. Meanwhile, Sam, Gabe and Adam are all crawling into wakefulness, grumbling about sleeping sitting up and the hell it wreaks on the spinal column.  Claire was bouncing to her feet and racing off to the kitchen where Castiel can hear Mary Winchester singing and pots and pans clanging.  If he were less fixated on the coffee he would have smelled the delicious scent of breakfast in the air. 

                  “Merry Christmas, J,” Dean grinned, and dropped a candy cane into Castiel’s coffee. 

                  “What have you done to my coffee?” Castiel grouched groggily.

                  “Made it festive, now get your ass up, my mom dropped by to surprise Sammy, Adam and I with Christmas breakfast and if you get there fast enough you might actually get some before Sasquatch, Bottomless Pit and His Royal Elfness get their paws on it,” Dean said, hooking a thumb in the direction of Sam, Adam and Gabe.

                  “Merry Christmas indeed,” Castiel smiled slowly, taking a sip of his coffee and absorbing the sound of a busy house, bright with Christmas cheer. He might even take a liking to the interloping candy cane.  Might.


	14. Phantoms and Fictions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very difficult one to write as it addresses a few deep emotional issues such as Castiel’s mother’s mental illness and its effects on his life both as a child and as an adult. This is the first time I have ever included a trigger warning in any of my fics and I hope it will be last. The conversations and interactions in this chapter are fairly mild but they do cover topics such as mental illness in a parent and its effects on a now-adult child. If this will upset you in any way, I am deeply sorry. As always, read with your own care in mind.

**Chapter 13: Phantoms and Fictions**

                  “My hatred of Valentine’s Day is not irrational, Dean,” J said, not bothering to look up from the books he’s busy re-shelving, “It is perfectly normal to abhor it.” 

                  “And yet, it’s not normal to use words like ‘abhor’ in normal conversation,” Dean pointed out, gesticulating with a book he is supposed to be shelving, “And you know why?”

                  James gives him a flat look without ever taking his eyes off what he’s doing. He’s just that good. Dean would be a little impressed if he wasn’t so used to it by now. 

“I sense a terrible pun is imminent.  Take shelter all those who value their literary integrity,” J said dryly. 

Dean shrugged ever-so-casually, “I was just going to point out that ‘abhor’ sounds a hell of a lot like ‘a whore’ and do you really want to be saying that in a family bookshop?”

                  “And yet you just did, twice.  Three times if you count the time you actually said ‘whore’.”  And dammit, J’s tone of voice is just to flat and wry and Dean’s trying not to laugh because he can’t be the first to snap under the pressure (one of these days J _will_ be the one to laugh first, it _will_ happen, Dean will make it so). 

                  “Go on, laugh.  I know you want to,” and then J _smirked_ and Dean lost it.

                  The laughter went on for who knows how long and somewhere around the middle James’ voice joined Dean’s in hilarity (although not after remaining prissily silent for a good minute just to prove that he wasn’t the one to break down first).  Wheezing, gasping for air, Dean leaned against the bookshelf and ran a hand down his face, “Damn, it’s a good thing you don’t have any customers right now.  That would be awkward.” 

                  “Really?” And J is back to being serene. 

                  “Yeah, no one wants to look like a psycho in public.  That’s how you get arrested for disturbing the peace.”

                  “You like the peace to be disturbed,” J (accurately) pointed out.  

                  Dean shrugged, “Keeps things interesting.” 

                  “No wonder you work with teenagers.” 

                  Dean chuckled, then re-focused on what they had been discussing until they had digressed into whores and ‘abhor’.  “So, Valentine’s Day. You hate it.” 

                  “Yes.”

                  “ _Hate_ it, hate it.”

                  “Yes.”

                  “… _Why?_ ” 

                  “It’s monochromatic and tedious.” 

                  “You’re going to be fun in a week,” Dean said sarcastically.

                  And there was his second James-Novak-flat-look-of-DOOM for today.

                  “Don’t remind me.  I still have to decorate for the ridiculous fake-holiday before I leave.” 

                  Dean blinked.  Leave? In a week?  During Valentine’s Day?”  Why? 

                  He moved to say something, ask something about it but snapped his law closed as J rapidly changed the subject. 

                  “Did you know that the original St. Valentine was stoned to death? No pot jokes please, Dean. Stop laughing. Now. …I give up.”

…

                  A few days later and J’s comment about leaving had managed to skitter away from Dean’s mind, leaving him with nothing but surprise when Gabriel slapped a piece of pie in front of him and said, “Ready for your road trip Dean-o?”

                  “What are you talking about, midget?” Dean asked, too focused on the pie in front of him to bother making the insult sting.

                  “Road. Trip.  You leave tomorrow.”

                  Dean blinked, “Okay, run this by me again, where am I going? And who signed me up for a _road trip?_ ”

                  “You’re just driving out…somewhere…umm…yeah…AskJamiecuzIreallydon’tknow.”

                  Dean ran a hand down his face tiredly, eyeing his pie. He really wanted to eat it, but he didn’t want to waste it and if he talked through eating his pie he might completely forget to savor it and that would be terrible… Oh, hey, Gabe was still talking. 

                  “Dean? Dean-o? Deanerrific?”

                  “Stop that, midget.  What?”

                  “I am not a midget!”

                  “You keep telling yourself that, dwarf,” Dean said on auto-pilot. Screw it; he’s so eating this pie.

                  Gabe grumbled incoherently as he wiped down the counter, apparently out of snappy comebacks.

                  One bite into his (completely awesome) pie, Dean sighed and set down his fork (this had never happened before, not with pie at least, it should have been marked as the momentous occasion it was, but sadly went unrecognized). “I can’t enjoy my freaking pie.”

                  “Serves you right for saying hurtful things to the vertically challenged,” Gabe said huffily.

                  Dean paused, thinking, “I would totally turn that into a dirty joke if I wasn’t so busy wondering what the hell you mean when you keep saying ‘road trip’.”

                  Gabe winced. “Um, oookay…so you know when you really want someone to do something so you just sort of act like they’ve already agreed to do it?”

                  Dean was wary now (and a little irritated that this road trip mystery was encroaching on his pie eating time), “Yes…?”

                  “Sooo, Jamie needs someone to drive him to Washington…and I can’t do it.”

                  Dean felt like he had said these words far too many times in this conversation. “Wait, what?” 

                  Gabe eyeballed him and said, deliberately slowly, as if he were speaking to a particularly slow child, “Jamie doesn’t have a driver’s license. He _can’t drive._   He needs to go to Washington, I normally do it, but I run a bakery and Valentine’s Day is three days away.”

                  “No.”

                  “Yes.”

                  “No.”

                  “Yes.”

                  “What the hell are we disagreeing about at this point?!”

                  “Disagreement? But Dean-o, you _promised_ you’d drive Jamie to Washington tomorrow!”

                  “You’re doing that thing again.”

                  “What thing?” Gabe asked all-too-innocently. 

                  “You do realize that pretending someone’s already agreed to do something before you ask them never works for five-year-olds?”

                  “Uh-huh.”

                  “You’re not five.”

                  “Its strength improves with age!” Gabe grinned, flinging his arms wide.

                  Dean glared at him over his plate of mostly-uneaten pie. “You are spoiling my pie time.”

                  Gabe sighed and seemed to deflate, “Come on, Dean-o, JayJay’s your best friend and he really needs to go to Washington.  I would totally ditch work to do it, but Kevin’s down with the flu and it’s Valentine’s Day weekend.  I can’t leave this place alone for three days on _freaking Valentine’s Day weekend._   Please, Dean.” 

                  Damn, Gabriel Shurley had never, ever, in the entire time Dean has known him, said the word ‘please’.  If he had it certainly hadn’t been directed at Dean. 

                  “Okay, why does J need to go to Washington so bad?”

                  Gabe honest-to-god _fidgeted._ And not in the ‘I’m plotting something diabolical hahaha’ sort of way.  In the ‘I’m mildly anxious about talking about this’ sort of way. This evening was getting weirder and weirder.  Dean just wanted to enjoy his end-of-day pie in peace. 

                  “I can’t really tell you, it’s not really my place,” Gabe admitted, “If Jamie wants to talk about it, fine, ask him.  Just, it’s a family thing, it’s screwed up and he needs a friend’s help now and I’m a sucky cousin who can’t lend him a hand right now.”

                  Dean didn’t quite face-palm, more dropped his face into his hand and let it rest there for a defeated minute.  “Fine,” he grumbled into his fingers, “I already took a personal day for tomorrow so I could work on some stuff around the apartment, I’ll drive J to Washington.” 

                  “Yay!” Gabe yelped, face lighting up like a neon sign. 

                  “Yay? For that, you forfeit all claims to manhood for the rest of your life.”

                  “Have it your way,” Gabe huffed, “See if I give you an extra piece of pie on the house for being a good friend to my baby cousin.”

                  Dean frowned at him, pondering whether or not the indignity of an apology was worth pie.  Then Gabe had the audacity to wave the freaking _plate of strawberry heaven_ in front of his very hungry face.  “Sorry.  Pie.”

                  “Ask nicely.”

                  “Pie, now.”

                  “Fine, princess.”

…

                  Castiel did a halfway decent job of not acting shocked when Dean showed up on his doorstep early the next morning, duffle bag in hand, ordering him to “load up, we’re heading out.”

                  No, Castiel did a good job of concealing his surprise when he slowly shut the door in his friend’s face, turned around, grabbed his mug of coffee and took a good long swig.  Head marginally clearer after a hit of blessed caffeine, he scooped up his cellphone and dialed Gabe.

                  “Kevin’s-sick-I-have-to-work-Dean-can-drive-you-you’re-like-besties-you-can-totes-trust-him!” Gabe spat out in an impressive display of verbal vomit before his cousin could get in a word edgewise.

                  “Totes? Gabriel, you’re not a preteen girl.” 

                  “Shut up, I thought you were going to kill me.”

                  “How could I kill you? We’re not in the same room.” 

                  “Your mildly disturbing psychic powers?”

                  Silence was really the only response that line deserved.

                  “Fine, okay, Cassie,” Gabe’s voice was quiet, just like all the other (few) times he ever used any permutation of Castiel’s real name, “I get that your mom’s…condition is kind of a touchy subject but if you ever want to visit her you’d better either move to Washington or man up and ask our friends for help cuz god knows I won’t always be around to play big brother.”

                  Castiel blinked slowly and took another gulp from his mug.  Finally, when his thoughts had stopped chasing their tails and the silence was beginning to become oppressively maroon, he spoke, “Thank you, Gabe. I needed to hear that.”

                  Gabriel’s sigh of relief was deep and long, “Thank god, I thought you were pissed.”

                  “Goodbye Gabriel, I’ll tell Mother that you send your regards.”

                  “Ugh, don’t go all stiff and formal on me, Cassie.  It’s appalling.” 

                  “Bye, Gabe, take care of Claire while I’m gone.” 

                  “Okay. Drive safe.” 

                  Setting aside both the phone and the coffee, Castiel re-opened the door to see Dean with a questionable-looking hairpin and a guilty look on his face.

                  “Picking my lock, Winchester?”

                  “Ugh, what is it with your family and giving me perfect setups for dirty jokes at all the wrong times?”

                  “It’s a gift.” 

                  “I’m sure it is,” Dean said sarcastically, “Get your stuff, we’re heading out.”

                  Castiel grabbed his duffle and coffee and followed obediently behind him.

…

                  They were an hour into the drive and fifty minutes into the silent treatment. Well, Dean mentally corrected, it wasn’t so much the silent treatment as J just not talking and Dean getting sick of jabbering only to receive monosyllabic responses.

                  “So why are we going to Washington?  And at some point I’m really going to need more than just ‘Washington’, something like a town name or an interstate, y’know basic navigation stuff.”

                  “Family reasons.”

                  Well, that was enlightening. 

                  “Okay,” Dean decided to roll with it, “And about those directions?”

                  “Leviathan, we’re going to Leviathan, Washington.  I’ll tell you when to turn.” 

                  More silence. God this was boring. 

…

                  Apparently crappy Carl’s Jr. burgers held some sort of magic secret make-J-hold-a-normal-conversation juice because about fifteen minutes after lunch J began to talk.  Not about anything particularly relevant, but at least it was something to break up the monotony. 

                  “My mother was a painter.  She didn’t really do it professionally, just whenever inspiration struck. She was very into realism; she loved concrete, static things.  She didn’t like change.  She _hated_ abstract art.  We never agreed on much in either technique or style.  She still taught me everything I know.  My brothers used to think I was her favorite. I’m not so sure. She spent more time with me, but not because we liked each other.  We just didn’t understand anybody else.”

                  “What about your twin?” Dean asked before he could slap the thought down.

                  “We were too similar in nature and too different in nurture.”

                  Right about now, if this were a normal conversation Dean would crack a joke about psychobabble and Freud.  But somehow he didn’t think that would help here.  Something was wrong here, and he wasn’t quite sure what it was. “Sounds like Sammy and our dad,” Dean said instead. 

                  “Yes?”

                  “Too similar.  Way too damn similar.”

                  “Were they happy?” J’s voice is different somehow, distant and abstract.

                  “What do you mean?”

                  A muscle ticked a steady rhythm in J’s face.  “I don’t know.” 

                  Dean sighed and rubbed his hair absently, “Yeah, I guess. We had a pretty good childhood, all things considered.  Not a lot of money but you know.”

                  J laughed dryly, “I really don’t.”

                  Dean shook his head wryly, “I knew it; you’re secretly filthy rich.”

                  “My family was,” the way J said it was odd, disconnected, almost. Like he didn’t really feel like that part of his past was still linked to the present. 

                  “So this whole ‘starving bookseller’ is just an act?” Dean teased.

                  “I am hardly starving.  But no, there isn’t any money coming from the family.”

                  Dean grunts, encouraging him to elaborate. 

                  “It has been…diverted to other purposes.”

                  Dean narrowed his eyes at him, “Did those bastards disown you?”

                  James laughed, “No, not really.  We just all…drifted apart.  It happens,” he laughed again at the puzzled look on Dean’s face, “Most people don’t live next door to their brother and a few miles away from their mom.”

                  Dean snorted, “I know that, J, I lived in New York City for close to a decade.”

                  “But you and your family never drifted?” J sounded genuinely curious.

                  Dean looked perplexed, “No, not really.  I mean, I went to university, then Sam did, but Adam was still at home and we saw him and Mom and Dad for the holidays.  We were apart but there was no ‘drifting’,” he frowned at his friend, curious, “But you know how that is, you’ve got Chuck and Becky and Gabe.”

                  But James was already shaking his head, “When I was a young child, yes, now, yes, but for a while it was just…me.  And my twin.  We used to be close.”

                  “But you said…” okay; now Dean was really confused. 

                  “Having a twin is hard, having an identical twin is harder. In many ways we were burdens to each other but we couldn’t give up on one another.” 

                  “Dude, that sounds incredibly unhealthy.” 

                  And then J laughed, throwing his head back and laughed until he was just shaking and mouthing the sounds silently.  Dean was pretty sure his barely-funny comment did not warrant this kind of reaction.  He started to look for place to pull over until the hysteria passed. 

                  “I’m fine, Dean,” J wheezed around the last giggly shreds from his fit of hilarity. 

                  “I’m pretty damn sure you’re not.”

                  “I’m fine, I really am.” 

                  “Whatever you say, man.” 

                  J wiped the laughter-induced tears from his cheeks and grinned, bright and burning and kind of beautiful in it’s own way.  “You didn’t do it.”

                  Okay, he could play this game, “What?  Didn’t do what?”

                  But James was off on a tangent and there was no stopping him now. “When you have a dead family member, mother, brother, father, sister, gerbil, people are so _horrid_ about it.  They walk on eggshells and get awkward and it’s terrible.  And plum, so very viciously plum.  And then there’s you and you’re just…normal about it.”

                  Dean had no idea what to say to that.  “What if I had no idea your twin was dead and was just being an ass?”

                  “That would be okay.”

                  “You’re…something, man.  You’re something.”

                  “People generally are.  And mint green. Have you ever noticed that people are strangely mint green?”

                  “Not typically.”

                  And that was the end of the Heart-to-Heart-Talking for a while. Which was fine with Dean because really, talking about feelings for any length of time was starting to give him hives. 

…

                  The closer they got to their destination, the quieter Castiel grew. He wanted to talk. He wanted to scream. The knowledge that he was drawing closer and closer to That Place itched beneath his skin like a spreading rash but he still couldn’t find any words.  It didn’t help that Dean was there, just being quiet and… _existing._ Dean, good, kind, dependable Dean. Dean was a good man. Castiel wasn’t so sure about himself. All he knew that the longer he spent sitting next to Dean the more he wanted to _talk._ And some skeletons he couldn’t unearth right now.  He just couldn’t. Simple as that.

                  He tried to smother the irrational surge of resentment towards the solid, understanding, patient presence beside him. 

                  It was harder than it should have been. 

…

                  Dean eyed James, trying not to worry as the hours dragged on and the conversation tapered off and died.  J had seemed to be doing better after talking about his twin and that last desperate burst of relieved laughter.  But as the miles slid past beneath the Impala’s wheels the words slid away.

                  Where were they going?  Dean didn’t know anything about Leviathan, Washington.  What the hell was so important that J _had_ to go there _now_?

                  It was a humbling experience, realizing you didn’t know a thing about your best friend. 

                  Because in the end, Dean could write a book on all the stupid little things he knew about J: his disgusting sludge-like coffee, his obsession with _The Lion King,_ his way of living in color, how he couldn’t organize a thing to save his life but his bookstore’s inventory was flawless, his love of bees, his collection of special edition _Sorry!_ board games. Dean knew a lot about J. But he really didn’t know jack shit.

                  It was fairly frustrating, to say the least. 

…

                  Castiel didn’t look at Dean when he asked him to pull into the parking lot of Our Lady of Mercy Mental Hospital. 

…

                  “J, what’s going on?”

                  “Park the car, Dean.” 

…

                  They sat in the Impala, parked, staring out at the rain-slicked pavement in front of them, watching water spittle from the sky and trail down the windshield in sad little streams.  Castiel braced his elbows on his knees and rested his face in his palms. He could feel Dean making a conscious effort _not_ to look at him, as if concerned that eye contact might scare him off. 

                  “I’m not crazy,” Castiel said into his palms.  In hindsight that might not have been the best line to start this conversation with.  He could feel Dean’s eyes on him now, bright green and burning.  “I’m here to visit someone,” Castiel elaborated, “My mother. She’s…not well.”

                  “Okay,” Dean said evenly, voice steady.  Castiel closed his eyes and listened to that voice, searching for hints of judgment or pity or mockery.  There were none. It was just Dean. Gratitude for that steady presence washed over Castiel, making it hard to think about anything in that moment but the fact that for once in his life someone was actually _listening_ to him without demanding or expecting anything. And even if it was about his crazy mother, and perhaps a little _because_ it was about that particular ghost from his past, it was good, it was okay.

                  “I might act a bit strange, I promise there is a reason, please trust me in this,” Castiel asked him. 

                  “Sure thing, J.  Sure thing. Do you want me to wait in the car or go in with you?” 

                  Castiel needed get out of this vehicle before he did something childish like hug him.  “Whatever makes you most comfortable.  You may have to sit in the waiting room for a while.” 

                  Dean could apparently read between the lines rather well, “Okay, let’s go. We don’t have all day.”

                  Castiel allowed himself to smile just a bit and settle into the sheer burgundy-ness of this moment.  Dark but warm and a little bitter.  Kindness is a lot like coffee when you’re on the receiving end of it.  

…

Angela Novak looked just like J. 

                  It was a punch in the gut to see her, really.  She sat in an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair by the window in the common area, an easel propped up in front of her. Her back was to them as they approached; narrow shoulders shrouded in a tan shawl that reminded Dean uncomfortably of J’s favorite trenchcoat, a fluffy cloud of dark, curling hair pulled back in some sort of sloppy almost-style, wayward curls trailing over her shoulders and down her back like dark creeks down the side of a cream-toned mountain. Her spine was very straight. She held herself like J did sometimes. Very, very carefully. As if she thought excess movement would break something vital deep inside her.  Her body was tight, movements sharp, almost awkward. But her hands were graceful, each finger like a dancer moving to its own tune.  J’s hands were like that too.  

                  Dean found it was getting harder and harder to watch her without seeing her son.

                  J stopped short of her chair, a good meter still separating them. “Hello, Mother,” he said, but his voice wasn’t its usual deep growl. Instead it was higher, strained in a way that only Dean and a handful of others could have recognized. That was the voice of a man fighting his own body, struggling for a sound that wasn’t quite attainable. It was painful to listen to.

                  And Mrs. Novak didn’t turn around. 

                  Dean glanced at J, brow furrowed in question, but his friend didn’t look at him.  Instead he pressed the bright beam of his sharp blue eyes into the back of the woman before them. She sighed and scooped up a dollop of blue with her paintbrush. The same shade of blue as J’s eyes. But she still didn’t turn around.

                  “Hello, Mother.” 

                  She paused, head tipped to the side, like a curious bird, like J sometimes, and Dean was sure she was going to turn around and acknowledge her son in some way.

                  “Why yes, Luci, that sounds like a wonderful idea,” her voice was beautiful, but still she didn’t turn, didn’t spare a glance in J’s direction and Dean struggled not to resent that beauty as he watched it slice into J’s heart and leave him bleeding. 

                  She paused in her painting; brush in mid-stroke, tilting her head to acknowledge her invisible conversation partner.  “No, let your brothers sleep…They’re very young, they need their rest…Lucifer Nicholas Novak do not wake up your father!  …He had to work very late last night…No, I can’t tell you what he was working on…hardly a subject for a little boy…get the sandwiches and we’ll have the picnic in the living room…just you and me, no one else…” she hummed a few notes, paused, hummed a bit more, but this time uncertainly, as if she were just now realizing that she had forgotten the tune.   Then she seemed to see, as if for the first time that there was cerulean paint dripping off her brush and into her lap.  With a flick of her wrist the oil that remained was deposited on the canvas and the brush was back in motion. 

                  “Hello, Mother.”  A small muscle was working in J’s jaw and it made Dean want to protect him.  Stand in front of him and shield him from the pain that was working its way into his bones. 

                  No acknowledgement from the woman in the chair.  She kept painting.  J watched her.  Dean watched J. Minutes slithered guiltily past. Suddenly the woman went rigid, her back a short sharp exclamation point, arm stiff as it ground the brush’s bristles into the canvas. 

                  “CASTIEL!” she snapped, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?  Get over here.  You are absurd.  Clean this nonsense up. JAMES!  Where is that boy?  JAMES, COME GET YOUR TWIN!” There was a pause and Dean wondered if she had come back to reality when she muttered,  “More ruined things, have to start all over again,” before she tossed the brush aside, paint and all. 

                  “I’m sorry, Mother,” J said, voice quieter, false inflection slipping away. Dean wanted to reach out to him, comfort him in some way, but James’ back was too straight, his posture too perfect. Dean knew if he tried to touch him now someone would get hurt. 

                  “What do you want from me?  What do you all _want?_ ” she seemed to grow more and more distressed as she realized that her paintbrush was no longer in her hand, fingers flying as she pawed around her body, around her chair, around her slice of the laminate floor, searching for the prize she had carelessly tossed away. 

                  Dean saw, out of the corner of her eye, the moment where J picked up the brush. He didn’t give it back.

…

                  Castiel thought he might fly apart if he didn’t move, escape, flee the rainbow of emotions and memories and violent, tearing, breaking voices swarming his subconscious with their half-remembered syllables and foggy inflections. God, why couldn’t he fucking _breathe_ anymore? He didn’t realize he was halfway across the parking lot until he blinked and felt wetness on his lashes. Rain was still spittling its way out of the flinty grey sky and he knew it had to be the clouds crying because god knew he had long forgotten how. 

                  Footsteps, charcoal and wet behind him.  A hand on his shoulder, warm and here and everything he knew he wasn’t right now.

                  “J, hey, J, are you breathing?  J, look at me.” 

                  Before he even knew what he was doing, Castiel spun on his heel and let his fist (when had his fingers clenched like that?  He didn’t remember this) fly towards the one man who dared to intrude on his personal maelstrom.  Dean rocked with the blow, taking it in the stomach, tightening his abdomen and just letting Castiel’s knuckles bounce off of the muscle.  It wasn’t a hard punch, not serious, not even moderately powerful. Sloppy and desperate and violent because how else do you respond to a world that had dissolved into sharp bright whites and blacks and reds?

                  But somehow, it worked, throwing that desperate punch worked, because Dean now had a hand on each of his shoulders and seemed to be leeching the tension away with their weight alone.  And just like that Castiel was back in control, or at least he thought he could reasonably fake control for as long as necessary. 

                  “I’m sorry, Dean.  That was appallingly crimson of me.  I’m so very sorry.”

                  But Dean didn’t seem all that concerned about that because he was still hanging onto Castiel’s shoulders and glaring at him with sharp green eyes, “Hey, space cadet, you with me all the way, cuz you don’t sound like it.”

                  “I am perfectly fine.  Practically perfect.  In every way. Fine.”

                  “No you’re not, dumbass.  Not if you’re quoting Mary Poppins,” Dean snorted, “That’s weird, even for you.”

                  “I suppose so,” Castiel began to muse before Dean grabbed his shoulders and yanked him into a crushing hug.  Castiel went stiff; he had no idea what to do.  His family was hardly the most physically demonstrative when he was young. He hugged Claire now, and occasionally accepted a hug-assault from Gabe when his cousin was feeling particularly affectionate (or hyperactive).  But beyond that, he was not the most hugged of children. Or teens.  Or adults.  No, he was not pathetic and needy.  He was not traumatized. He was just…confused.

                  “You all there, J?  You okay, man?” Dean asked, voice slightly muffled. 

                  And for once in his adult life Castiel Novak chose to be honest, “No. Not really.” 

                  “That’s okay.  You know what you do when you’re not okay?”

                  “Find a liquor store.  Drink it.”

                  “Haha, very funny.  No, you hang on as tightly as you damn well can for as long as you damn well need to.”

                  Castiel slumped a bit, letting some of the tension leak out of his body as he leaned into his friend’s impromptu embrace.  “Okay,” he muttered, and hugged Dean back.

…

                  Hours later they were sitting on the hood of the Impala, staring up at a sky strewn with stars, beers in their hands.  No, they didn’t drink the local liquor store.  They just grabbed some microbrew and what was left of their sanity and headed out to an anonymous field in the middle of anonymous Washingtonian countryside. 

                  “Why do you do it every year?” Dean asked.  He wasn’t drunk, just lightly buzzed.  Enough to make him brave enough to try chatting about this crap but not enough to make him stupid about it. 

                  “Gabriel rat me out, did he?” J’s eyes glittered dimly in the dark, throwing out scraps of light when no one’s eyes had any right to be that bright and…and…freaking _shiny._ Seriously, what the hell?  Was he magic or something?  Maybe Dean was a bit drunker than he thought…

                  “Yeah, lil’ bastard bullied me into bullying you into letting me be the one to drive you out here.  So how ‘bout it? Why the hell do you do this shit every year?”

                  J raised both eyebrows as he took another pull from the bottle, “Sometimes more than once a year,” he murmured softly, lips still brushing the rim of the bottle. 

                  “More? Holy shit, J, what’s wrong with you?” Dean demanded before the smart half of his brain could remind him that saying stuff like that typically ended in pissed off people and broken friendships.

                  “She doesn’t know my twin brother is dead.  Sometimes I go dressed…differently...and she thinks he’s there. It puts her at ease. I think.  I don’t really know.  It could just be me projecting feelings onto her that she has no right to.”

                  “Your twin…Castiel?  The one she was yelling at?”

                  J’s face tenses and releases.  It’s a very quick motion, almost invisible in the dimness.  But Dean saw it.  “Yes.”

                  Oh, short answers now.  That typically means shut up. 

                  “Why do you care, J?” Dean asked.  He was never very good at shutting up.

                  “About my brother?” J asked archly, deliberately misinterpreting Dean’s words.

                  “You know what I mean.” 

                  “Because no one wants to be alone.  And I still remember who she was.  Before the illness.” 

                  Dean remembered the painting she had been abusing.   It held a strange jumble of images, half-finished projects, ghosts of dreams.  It was as if she had begun work on six different paintings all on one canvas, haphazard and sloppy and messy.  Nothing like what J described.

                  “Hey, J,” Dean felt like this is a serious subject and should be handled with care, but he wasn’t really sober enough to think all that logically. He cleared his throat gruffly, “J, did she ever hit you?  Did you grow up afraid?” 

                  “I never feared any of my family.  Not her.  Not my father, when he was there.  Not even Lucifer, not even at the end, when it all went to hell.  What issues we had were a bit more…complex.” 

                  “Okay,” Dean accepted that because he could smell the honesty in the air, heavy and cloying and not going anywhere…

                  “I’m not visiting again as my twin this year,” J said, voice steady and sure, that of a man who knew his limits and knew when he didn’t need to push them, “It’s too much.”

                  “Okay,” and that was the beauty of having someone other than his regular driver come, they didn’t poke and stab every one of your open wounds just to see what color you bleed. 

                  “You know what Sammy and I used to do as kids?  When one of us had a had a shitty day?” 

                  “What?” J asked, voice smooth and relaxed and mildly sleepy.

                  “Fireworks,” Dean grinned, a manic glit in his eyes.  “We’d wait until it was dark out and we’d find an empty field and set them all off at once.  We’d run around, screaming and shouting and freaking out like we were possessed.”

                  “Really?” J’s tone didn’t fool Dean, he was obviously intrigued.

                  “Yeah.   It didn’t fix anything. But it was pretty awesome.”

                  Silence hung in the air, swaying between them like a presence.

                  Finally J sucked in a moderately long-suffering breath, “You bought fireworks at that grocery store, didn’t you?”

                  “Yeah.”

                  “How many?”

                  “A freaking ton.” 

                  “Let’s see what they look like together.” 

                  “Okay, J, get some matches.” 

…

                  When the sky exploded into a million, billion, zillion glorious colors and the men raised their bottles in tipsy salute to the display, Castiel thought he might have felt the soft snick-click of a once-displaced fragment of himself snapping back into place. 

…

                  Sam Winchester was not a goddamn answering machine.  Yet here he was, staring at James’ cell phone sitting on the counter of Trick or Treat where James had accidentally left it the day before (Gabriel had shifted it over to beside the cash register as if it was supposed to be there and wasn’t prime fodder for some thief’s light fingers).

                  Wincing a bit at the breach of etiquette, but realizing that everyone knew that if left to his own devices, as he often was, J would never bother to check his messages, Sam scooped up the phone and pressed ‘Accept’.

                  “Hello, this is Dr. Winchester on James Novak’s phone,” Sam began politely, emphasis on the word _began._ He didn’t get very far into his opening line before his ears were overwhelmed by the sound of tear-soaked babbling. 

                  “I just want my baby, is that too much to ask?  A mother’s gotta see her little girl all grown up and beautiful? Isn’t that right, Novak? Isn’t it?” her voice, it was a woman, whoever it was, wobbled and shook with drunken emotion.

                  “I’m sorry, who is this?” Sam was growing suspicious.

                  “You’re so cruel.  Heartless little bastard, always were,” some water-logged snuffling, but no actual tears. Great, progress.

                  “Excuse me, ma’am?  Are you all right? Do you need something?” 

                  “You know you’re a selfish bastard, Novak.  A _selfish bastard,”_ her voice began to rise in hysteria and fury, “I ask for one little thing as _her fucking mother_ an you can’t be bothered to answer your phone? Goddamn you, GODDAMN YOU –“

                  “That is _enough_ , ma’am.”

                  “You steal everything.  You stole my husband before your mother even popped you two out.  You were always going to be _twins._ Best pals for ever and ever. How cute, no wonder you had to hijack his life.  Without him you’re just an empty carcass.”

                  “Ma’am, what are you talking about?”

                  Her breath rattled, wet and tangled through the phone’s speakers and Sam resisted the urge to pull it away from his face.  If it wasn’t there, sodden and stinking of things he was growing ever more certain should not be said, he might have thought she’d hung up on him. 

                  Eight little words.  

                  “Fuck you Novak, I’m coming for my daughter.” 

                  Sam hit the ‘END CALL’ button before his brain caught up to his fingers.


	15. Mother Knows Best

**Chapter 14: Mother Knows Best**

                  “I hope you know that you taking him to see his mother seems to have significantly helped Jay-Jay… and if you slept with him on your little weekend trip I am contractually obligated to arrange your death.  I promise it will be discreet.  After all, I like you.”  Gabriel smiled charmingly and Dean eyed the slice of pie in the shorter man’s hands with suspicion. 

                  “I did not sleep with Dean, Gabriel.  Don’t hold his pie hostage,” J sighed, dropping onto the stool beside Dean and propping his elbows on the countertop. 

                  Gabriel narrowed his eyes and pulled the pie closer to his body, “I’m waiting.”

                  “For what?” J must be in a good mood, his shoulders were loose as he lazily propped his chin on folded arms. 

                  “The truth.”  The squinty-eyed suspicious look would work better if Gabriel was taller and less completely harmless-looking.

                  “I did not sleep with J, I swear on that slice of pie I _paid for._ You know, the one you still haven’t given me.” 

                  J’s squint-eyed look was scarier than Gabriel’s. 

                  Gabriel surrendered the pie. 

                  “Thank you, Gabriel,” J said primly as Dean began to demolish his dessert.

                  Gabriel mumbled something suspicious and flicked Dean in the forehead with a dishrag while J snickered into his blacker-than-sin coffee. Before Dean could concoct a truly beautiful comeback to counter Gabriel’s continued shifty-eyed looks, the trio of men was interrupted by the clatter-thump of teenaged sneakers on the communal staircase running between the bookstore and the bakery and the slap-bang of the back door of Gabriel’s kitchen being flung open by none other than Claire Novak. The blond whirlwind flew through the kitchen, out from behind the counter and into the arms of her waiting father.

                  “Dad, Dad, DAD!” she yelped like a, well, teenaged girl.

                  “Orange, orange, ORANGE!” J countered, hugging his daughter back fiercely.

                  “Dad?”

                  “Orange?”

                  “What?” Claire leaned out of the embrace.

                  J shrugged, “I thought we were just shouting random nouns. Was that not the plan?”

                  “My god, you get weirder every day,” Gabriel muttered from behind the counter. Dean grabbed the dishtowel out of his hands and flicked him in the face. 

                  “Hey!” the baker squeaked, lunging across the counter, hands grabbing for the towel and catching only air.  Dean flicked him in the face again. 

                  Claire, sliding away from her father and plopping on the barstool on his side not occupied by Dean, glanced at J, who quirked an eyebrow at her. In sync they sighed and said “Children.”

                  The bell above the bakery door chimed as Dean and Gabriel swatted at each other and the Novaks snickered quietly.  Dean swiveled around on his barstool to spot Sam standing in the doorway. “Sammy!  Join the party!” turning his attention back to Gabe he held the towel out of reach while snarking, “Stay away from my pie, midget!”

                  Gabriel huffed indignantly and sprayed whipped cream in the elder Winchester’s face. 

                  “Gah, what the- GABE!” As Dean pawed at the foamy mess Gabriel snatched the towel back, cackling. 

                  Sam, spotting J, shifted uncomfortably.  “Ah, hey…J.  So, I found your phone, you’ve got a ton of messages.” 

…

                  Castiel saw the way Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes, saw the way his gaze skittered away from him, dancing across the room to rest on anything but him. Very chrome.  Very, very chrome.  Castiel didn’t like it.  Fear curled in his gut as his instincts picked up on the possibility of danger before his brain had fully computed the risks. 

                  And then Sam spoke and it all made sense. 

                  “Ah, hey…J.” (yes, Castiel noticed the pause, how could he not?) “So, I found your phone, you’ve got a ton of messages.”

                  And all Castiel could think was: _Goddammit, Amelia_ and _Fuck, he knows_ and _GODDAMMIT AMELIA._

For the rest of his life Castiel would wish that he had been a bit more prepared for that sentence. That had somehow psychically _known_ what Sam Winchester was going to say before he said it and prepared according.  Because if he had been a bit more ready, a smidge more prepared, then _this_ wouldn’t have happened:

                  “Oh, cool, thanks, Sam.  Dad, let’s listen to your messages.  I wonder who’s been calling you…got a girlfriend, or boyfriend, it’s all cool here, on the side?”  Claire grinned at him, the bright flash of a smile and the sparkle of teasing words as she grabbed the phone. And the thing was, this wasn’t extraordinary, this wasn’t _unusual._ Claire almost always listened to his messages with him.  It was enough of a novelty for him to have any that it could even be a bit fun.  But today…today Castiel couldn’t stand that horrid, charcoal thought that Claire might hear what he knew was waiting for him on the machine. 

                  Castiel was a second, a single fucking _second_ too late grabbing a phone. 

                  One second too late and Claire pressed ‘play’.

                  _‘Sweeeeetie, heeeeyyy. I wanna seeee her. I wanna see my baby girl. You get that, don’t you, sweetie? A mommy’s gotta see her little girl. Sorry, I drank a little too much champagne at dinner tonight, whooo.  One of my buddies out here, ohh!  I never told you, did I?  Weeelll. I’m in LA! And you’re not! Heehee, well, one of my buddies out here took us to this_ fantastic _party and we’re all sooo happy right now!’_

                  The machine cut her off. 

_‘Dammit, you’re not keeping her from you, Novak.  I know where you ran off to.  I’m seeing my daughter.’_

                  She hung up this time. 

_‘Novak. Fucking Novaks. You can’t hide forever. You’ve gotta talk to me sometime. You’ve gotta let me talk to her sometime.  Who made you fucking God, anyway?’_

                  Even the ‘click’ of the message’s end seemed angry. 

                  _‘Hi, hon.  Honey.  Honeybunches. You always were a little obsessed with bees, sweetums.  I guess I’ll see if you still are soon.  Oh, right, yeah, I didn’t talk to you last time; I talked to that other guy...well, I’m on my way and I brought a little tequila for the road, if you’re good I might just share it with you...  See ya real soon. Kisses.’_

The sickly sweetness of that last message set Castiel’s blood aflame and teeth on edge.

                  Silence filled up the bakery like water in a glass.   A storm waiting to break and shatter this particular teacup. Gabriel, still armed with the dishtowel, Dean, still decked out in whipped cream, Sam, looking supremely uncomfortable, still halfway reaching to take the phone away from Claire. It was good to know that Sam never meant for her to hear those messages, to absorb that vitriol, either. It almost comforted Castiel. Almost.

                  Claire swallowed and Castiel could hear the click of her throat working. “My mother.  My _mother,_ Amelia Novak, has been trying to contact me for _god knows how long_ and you never thought to _tell me?!_ ” 

                  It took a herculean effort for Castiel not to flinch away from the hurt and rage dripping from her voice. 

                  “What, you thought you’d just wait for it to _blow over_? Well, _Dad_ , sorry but genetics don’t just _go away!_ She’s my _mother,_ she _gave birth to me_! Don’t you think I might have a right to talk to her once or twice in _eight fucking years_?”

                  Castiel clenched his jaw and forced out a level tone.  “She left.  She always leaves.”

                  _“Don’t you think I want to ask her why?!”_ Claire shouted.

                  Castiel’s face felt cold, like everything that made him a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood human had drained away. And still his voice stayed even. “There is no reason on this earth good enough to justify abandoning your child while you still have the physical capacity to care for them.” 

                  Fingers, a hand brushed across his shoulder, resting there and giving it a gentle squeeze.  Dean. Castiel wanted to lean into the comfort he was offering.  But he didn’t. He needed to stay standing. To face this.

                  “I spent eight years with no mom.  Eight years living in the past with you!  I want so goddamn much to have some sort of, I don’t know, _closure._ I want my mommy!  I want things to be the way they were!”  
                  “The way they were,” Castiel repeated dumbly.

                  “Yeah,” Claire said, voice trembling and a little uncertain, as if surprised by this new layer of her psyche, “Yeah, I want things to be the way they were eight years ago, when we were still moving towards something. Instead of being…” she shrugged, arms coming up and then down to take in everything around them, “…stalled out.”

                  “You don’t remember eight years ago,” Castiel ground the words between his teeth.

                  “Neither do you,” Claire spat before turning and gathering up her stuff, “I’ve got to go to school.  Tell me if my mom calls. Or, you know, keep it secret, whatever you feel like doing.” 

                  And she stormed out, the chime above the door jingling forlornly in her wake.

                  “Oh, god, I am so, so, sorry,” Sam’s words were an agonized whisper as he sank into a chair, one hand coming up to rub his face. 

                  “Not your fault,” Castiel said crisply, staring out the glass door after Claire. 

                  “J…” Dean began, tightening his hold on Castiel’s shoulder.

                  “Dean.” Castiel turned towards him, staring at this strange, amber, _good_ person who wanted to help him.  To comfort him. But Castiel had forgotten how to receive comfort a long time ago.  “You need to go to school too.” 

                  “J-”

                  Castiel brought one hand up to lightly squeeze and then gently-but-forcefully remove Dean’s hand from his shoulder.  “Go to work, Dean.” 

                  Dean stared up at him, green eyes questioning, before shaking his head. “Okay, J, okay.” He gathered his laptop bag and his jacket and walked towards the door, stopping beside Sam and clapping his hand on his shoulder, “It’s okay, Sammy. S’not your fault.”  And then Dean too was out the door and Castiel was again staring into space. 

…

                  Castiel didn’t open the bookstore that day.  He walked up to his apartment in a haze, leaving doors swinging open behind him, not bothering to shut them.  He just kept walking until he found himself in his room, unmade bed in front of him, paintings and sketches and notebooks and post-it-note ideas swarming around him in a sea of paper, pen and paint. 

                  He tore apart his room. 

                  The sea rolled out of the gaping maw of his bedroom door to overtake the living/dining room, a steady tide lapping at the edges of the kitchen. Inside Castiel was a typhoon of motion, yanking out dust-saturated boxes and bins and flinging them open, ripping off his scabs and tossing away his BandAids and letting the pus-filled infected past seep into the little cracks that slithered their way through his body and his brain. 

                  All the unfinished, half-finished, half-formed artwork from That Damn Year. Eight years ago stared him in the face and brought out a rage and despair he hadn’t felt in fucking _eons._ Hours bled past in a jagged, biting haze and he didn’t speak to anyone until the day had begun to fade.

…

                  At three o’clock that afternoon, Gabriel ventured into the Novak apartment, took one look at the mess and the artist sitting in an exhausted ball in the middle of it and sighed, “Oh, Cassie.” 

                  Castiel stirred a bit in the eye of the hurricane of clutter and Gabriel picked his way over to his cousin. 

                  “I finished one of them.” 

                  Gabriel blinked.  “What?”

                  “All those projects from that year, they were never finished. And I finished one. You should be proud of me.”

                  Gabriel sighed, “Cassie, I’m family, I’ll always be proud of you.”

                  Castiel snorted and closed his eyes. 

                  “Hey, no sleeping, show me this masterpiece, Cassandra.”

                  Castiel opened his eyes a sliver, a thin glint of blue beneath dark lashes. “Fine,” he said, sliding to his feet, motions jerky and chopped up like the gestures of a rusted tin puppet. He walked away, towards his room, stepping over and on top of instead of picking his way around the accumulated clutter. 

                  “Okay,” Gabriel breathed out, this was not going to be pretty.

…

                  After school let out Dean wanted nothing more to go home and check on his neighbors.  The look on J’s face… it made something ache inside him to see that much emptiness in those eyes. J was not the sort of person who was ever that…blank.  And Claire, that much pain and rage...that was the kind of anger that hurt you to hold onto, Dean would know.  He remembered the sharp, jagged twist in his gut when his dad died in that car accident and the autopsy showed that John had been hiding cancer from them for months. There was nothing worse than being lied to by a parent.  Even if those lies were meant to protect you. 

                  But Dean couldn’t go home because staff meetings stopped for no man, woman, or family crisis.  And so he stayed. He stayed for the staff meeting, he stayed to meet with a particularly demanding parent, he stayed to reassure the over-stressed and slightly manic Kevin Tran that everything would, in fact, be ok, and he stayed to (finally) take the time to write out his lesson plans for the rest of the week.  By the time the never-ending labor of love-and-hate that is teaching came to a close for the night, Dean was wrung out, exhausted and very aware that it was after 6 o’clock. 

                  He first thought as he packed up his classroom was ‘Goddammit, I gotta call J.’ He knew that J was a grown adult, would never do anything to intentionally hurt himself in the aftermath of the family spat, but his eyes… they were so damn _empty._ Dean needed to call him, make sure everything was ok at home (and maybe find out what the hell happened 8 years ago, a simple messy divorce wouldn’t make J shut down like that). 

                  J was on his speed dial.  How that happened Dean wasn’t quite sure, but didn’t really want to question at this time.

                  Three rings and: _“Hello, you’ve reached the Swedish Embassy –“_

                  Dean hung up before it could get to the ‘fish candies’ or ‘leave a message at the beep’ parts. 

                  He called Sam next.  When in doubt, always call Sammy. 

                  One ring and: “Hey Dean, J’s not answering his cell phone right now. I would know; I still have it.”

                  “How’d you get it?” Dean asked, grabbing his stuff and heading out to the Impala.

                  “He left it on the counter at the bakery.  So far he’s gotten two more enchanting calls from Amelia, a few concerned texts from Charlie and your call.”

                  “Nothing from Claire?”

                  “No, Gabriel says she told him she’s spending the night at Krissy’s house. It’s bad, Dean. There’s something else going on here, something to do with Amelia.  There wasn’t just a bad divorce 8 years ago…”

                  “There was something else,” Dean acknowledged, dumping his stuff in the backseat and sliding in behind the steering wheel.

                  “Don’t you think it’s weird, the way she talks to him?”

                  “Um, yeah, it’s pretty weird that she spends half her time cursing him out and half the time bat shit crazy.  Make that bat shit crazy 100% of the time with different types of lunacy for flavor,” Dean grumbled as the Impala’s engine started up with a gravelly purr.

                  “Well, yeah, but beyond the crazy, think about it, she calls him ‘Novak’. Not James, not Jamie, nothing. Just ‘Novak’ or some frankly disturbing nicknames.” 

                  “I know Sammy, she’s a few marshmallows short of a full bowl of Lucky Charms, but I really don’t think that’s the issue we should be focusing on here. Claire’s pissed and hurt, whatever she was talking about with all that ‘eight years ago’ crap really tore up J, and yes, that was weird as all hell too, and we need to work on fixing what’s right in front of us before we start thinking about the bitch-queen.”

                  “Please tell me you’re not going to start calling Amelia Novak ‘the bitch-queen’.”

                  With a growl the Impala pulled out of the school parking lot. “Hey, if the name fits.”

                  “Whatever, Dean.  What are we going to do about this?”

                  “About Amelia-the-bitch-queen?  Nothing. That’s a problem for tomorrow or maybe next week, or next month if karma’s on our side which is pretty unlikely, but stranger things have happened.”

                  “Yeah, like J and Claire having a screaming match in the bakery,” Sam muttered glumly.

                  “Damn straight,” Dean replied grimly, squashing his cell phone more firmly beneath his ear as he guided the Impala through traffic, “Okay, so here’s what I’m going to do.  I’m going over to Krissy’s, see if I can talk to Claire.  She needs someone who’s not going to fly off the handle at her or remind her of her family drama right now.”

                  “What about J?”

                  And damn if those three words didn’t twist something sharp and terrible right between Dean’s ribs.  “He doesn’t need me right now,”

                  “Dean-”

                  “Sammy, no interrupting.  When you’re family’s gone nuts you need what’s left.  He needs Gabe, a crazy little sugar junkie, but the closest thing J has to family. He needs that, he needs some shared history.  Bare minimum Gabe knows what happened eight years ago and they can talk about it. The best I can do for J right now is talk to Claire.”

                  “Wow, that almost sounded mature, Dean,” Sam’s chuckle was a little less genuine than normal but Dean would take what he could get.

                  “Well, you know, times change and all that crap.  Hey, do me a favor and call or text Charlie; give her the Cliff Notes version of what’s going on so she’s not too worried about J.”

                  “Sure, Dean.”

                  “Thanks, bitch.”

                  “That’s offensive, jerk.  Apparently, I’m not the queen bitch.” This time Sam’s laugh sounded more real.

                  “Nope, you’ll have to duke it out with Amelia Novak over that one.”

                  “Fine, fine.  See you later.”

                  “Yeah.”

                  Dean hung up as he parked on the street in front of Krissy’s house.

…

                  The detail in Castiel’s new-old painting was astonishing. Gabriel wasn’t really sure what he was expecting when Castiel led him into his room/studio, but it certainly wasn’t this.

                  It was a mixed media piece, that much Gabriel could tell. It had started as a standard oil portrait that was in no way standard for Castiel.  Or at least the artist Castiel used to be. Unlike any other portrait in his long career, this one was straight on, a typical pose with none of the surreal shading or visual trickery that made his other human pieces so unusual. It looked almost posed; oddly formal like a school photo except the subject was a grown adult.

                  A lesser man would have assumed the portrait was supposed to be of Castiel. Gabriel was not a lesser man.

                  “You tried to paint him.”

                  “Yes, eight years ago, right after…well… The first time I painted him since we were children.  He always hated being painted.  Made him uncomfortable, itchy under the skin.  I don’t think he wanted to be able to see exactly how I saw him.  Paint was a little bit too honest.”

                  “But you…”

                  “After the fire I wanted to capture a little bit, catch whatever was left. I started this and well…it withered away, unfinished.” There was a pause where both men looked at the painting. Then Castiel glanced at Gabriel, “It’s finished now.  Or as finished as I will allow it to be.”

                  Gabriel nodded, staring at all the new additions to the original almost-portrait. Beyond oils Castiel had layered on ridges of colored wax, twists of copper wire and charred scraps of photographs trapped within pale wax confines.  More oil paints wove within, through and around the rest of it, blending it, defining it. 

                  The result was the image of a man, aflame, pursued by shadows and sparks. Old family photographs, all charred edges and fragmented fragility were scattered throughout the piece, suspended beneath a layer of clear wax, providing angles and shades of depth. The copper wire twisted through and over it all, at times rigid, symmetrical, perfect, at others twisted, broken and scattered.  The play of painted flame and shadow showed images if Gabe focused long enough. A laughing woman, a wide-eyed little girl, a burnt red madwoman, her hair a wisp of smoke and back turned to the viewer.  Gabriel could pick out golden bee-shaped sparks and the image of what had been Jimmy’s suburban home peering out from the kindling.  And finally, back behind and slightly to the side of the original portrait subject, a shadow.  A man, another portrait, this one done completely in dark grayscale. 

                  The burning man and his shadow-twin had the same electric blue eyes.

                  Gabriel turned his head to look at Castiel.  Gabe knew who the shadow man was. 

                  Castiel reached out, fingertips a breath away from hitting the canvas. “Did you know that the Ancient Egyptians never finished paintings or drawings of people? They were too afraid that the perfection of an accurately drawn body would give that figure life and a free will.”

                  “I can see what they meant,” Gabriel half-whispered.

…

                  Dean didn’t really have a plan when Krissy whipped open her house’s door. Honestly, his first thought was the realization that Krissy opened doors the way some people slammed them. That did not bode well for this conversation. 

                  “Hey, Krissy.”

                  “Winchester.”

                  “Can I talk to Claire?”

                  “Maybe.”

                  Minutes crawled past as Krissy stared him down through her shaggy dark bangs and Dean waited for something to happen. 

                  Dean was the first to break.  “Krissy, listen, I need to talk to Claire.  It’s important and she can’t hide behind you on this one.  She’s not in trouble, I get that there are however many sides you want to every story, all that crap.  I just want to talk to her.  Now. So go get her and we can quit staring each other down like assholes in a crappy western.” 

                  Krissy narrowed her eyes at him, “You make a compelling argument, Winchester.” She then whirled away, leaving the door open.  Apparently her door-slamming attitude didn’t extend to actual door-slamming. 

                  Dean waited exactly a minute (no, he wasn’t _counting_ , what kind of loser do you think he is?) until someone came back to the door. During that time he contemplated the merits of politely closing said door and struggled against old cop habits telling him not to keep his back to the street, pushing him to check over his shoulder and making sure no one was eyeing the open doorway with thoughts of robbery dancing through criminal heads.  But when Claire appeared in the doorframe all paranoid thoughts vanished (well, they didn’t vanish, they just quieted down a bit). 

                  Krissy wasn’t with her.  She was wearing the same jeans and t-shirt she had been wearing at the bakery that morning, her sweatshirt jacket tied around her waist.  It was amazing how little and how much had changed.

                  “Hi, Dean.  You wanted to talk?”

                  Dean nodded.  She gestured towards some rickety porch furniture, pulling the door closed (thank god) behind her. They settled, her on a wicker rocker Dean wouldn’t trust to hold a cat safely, and Dean on a creaky porch swing.

                  “What happened eight years ago, Claire?” Dean asked gently, no preamble, he didn’t believe in pulling punches or pleasantries. 

                  “Not my story to tell,” she stared at her hands, refusing to meet his gaze.

                  “You should have thought about that before you threw it in your dad’s face. Now come on, Claire, we need to know, what happened eight years ago?” Dean didn’t raise his voice; his tone was still gentle, understanding, open. 

                  Claire sighed and shook her head.  She still wouldn’t look at Dean. 

                  Dean huffed, exhaustion and strain leaking out with the sound as he ran a hand down his face.  They sat in silence for a minute, steeping in it, soaking it up like radiation.

                  Dean was the one to break it.  “You know my brother Adam isn’t my real brother.” 

                  “No? Yes? Maybe, I don’t know,” Claire mumbled.

                  He shrugged, “It’s not something we advertise.  We were his third, fourth?  I don’t know; we were one of his foster homes and something about him just…worked.  Mom took one look at him and decided we were keeping him.  When we first took him in he was a tiny thing, malnourished, skittish. More like a stray cat than a kid. And he’d get these calls. We didn’t know who it was, not at first. But every time the phone rang his eyes lit up and he’d run to get it, answer it all formal like a secretary or something,” Dean shook his head, remembering Adam and how big the phone looked in those little hands, “And most of the time it was someone for Mom or Dad or one of Sammy and me’s friends.  But every now and then it’d be someone for Adam and he’d take the phone and hightail it to his room.  He’d lock the door and not come out for a while.  And when he finally came out he’d put the phone back, silent and pale as a ghost. We’d find him curled up in closets or cabinets, asleep or just exhausted.  He’d look like he’d been crying.  It scared Mom.”

                  “Who was it?  The calls. Who was it?”

                  Dean shook his head, “Turned out his dad, who was supposed to be in jail, but I guess he got out on good behavior or something, had been calling him even though he wasn’t supposed to have any contact.  I don’t know how he got the number.  Maybe Adam looked him up, got in contact with him. But every time he heard the phone ring he’d get all excited and every time he ended the conversation unhappy, worn out, and sad.  I don’t know why he kept it a secret.  Maybe he thought he’d be in trouble even though it was his dad who was doing something wrong. My Dad’s the one who found out what was going on.”

                  “What did he do?” Despite herself, Claire was getting drawn into Dean’s story.

                  “Changed the phone number, talked things out with the lawyers and eventually we adopted Adam.  So that’s how I got my second baby brother.  I was older at the time, in middle school or high school, but still.  It was important.”

                  “Why are you telling me this?” Claire’s eyes were narrowed at him as if she had already figured out his ulterior motive and was waiting to catch him out in the lie. 

                  Dean decided to go with the truth, if only to see what her face looked like. “I have no idea. Just all of this reminded me of all that.  Pretty damn similar situations if you think about it.” 

                  “But it’s completely different, Dean!” Claire’s voice began to climb in volume for the first time since she walked through the doorway, “Adam was able to _talk_ to his _dad_ the exact opposite of what I’ve been able to do! _He’s_ the one who kept secrets for the rest of you; you didn’t keep the secrets from him!  It’s just, argh!” Claire had jumped to her feet in the middle of her little impromptu speech and now, with an inarticulate sound of rage, she dropped back down into it, rolling with the rocking of the chair as she landed. 

                  “Why did Adam keep his secret?”

                  “He wanted to keep the peace, he just-”

                  “Why’d J keep his secret?”

                  “Dean, that’s so, so _different!_ ”

                  “How?”

                  “Because, I’m being denied, I, ugh,” she took a deep breath and refocused her argument, “I deserve to know my mother and make my own judgments about her. I spent eight years wondering why I didn’t have a mommy like all the other girls in my class. I wanted a mommy and she wasn’t there. And here I had the chance to talk to her, figure some things out and he kept it from me.  He doesn’t get to play god here, it’s not okay.”

                  “Has he ever done anything that hurt you in any way?  Anything that ever took anything away from you?”

                  “Before today? Nothing,” Claire muttered.

                  Dean nodded, “And did we, you and me, did we listen to the same voicemail messages this morning?”

                  “Yes,” the syllable slipped out between Claire’s tightened teeth.

                  Dean pressed his lips together, “And did that woman, the one on the phone, sound like she had her shit together in any way, shape or form?”

                  “No,” Claire sighed, the word a puff of sound and breathy air.

                  “Okay, so we’ve agreed that we both heard messages from a cracker jack this morning.  Awesome. Now, do you think someone who is that much of a goddamn mess deserves to be your mom?” 

                  Claire scrubbed her hands up and down her face, “No,” the words were reluctant, “I’ve just wanted one for so, so _long…_ ”

                  “Yeah, kid, I get it, I do.” 

                  “I’m just so _disappointed._ ” And oh god, she was sniffling now.  Dean had no idea what to do with a crying child.  None at all.  But he would tough it out, because only a complete and total jerk would walk away now, especially when you could argue that any tears here were partially his fault.

                  Claire choked on a sound that was half laugh and half sob, “I spent so much time _hoping_ and _imagining_ and I always told Dad I was fine without her and I _was_ but hope like that doesn’t really go away all the way.  It’s like when your parents tell you there’s a chance you might be able to go to the carnival that weekend but you aren’t able to and you _know_ everyone’s too busy to go but you keep on hoping right up until midnight Sunday night that you might _still_ be able to go to the carnival.  I wanted to go to the damn carnival, Dean.” And she was crying for real now, huge, body-shaking, shuddering sobs and all Dean could do was put an arm around her shoulders, draw her in and let her cry into his chest for a few minutes.

                  “I know, I know,” Dean muttered into her hair, rubbing gentler circles on her shoulder blades as her tears soaked through his shirt, “I’m sorry, kid, I’m so sorry.” 

…

                  Gabe showed up at Sam’s door with an unusually serious look on his face, “Come on, we’re cleaning up,” was all he said before marching away, Sam trailing along in his wake. 

                  Sam didn’t comment when he saw the mess that had overtaken J’s apartment, just rolled up his sleeves and helped shift it back into some semblance of order.  J worked robotically by his side. Occasional bursts of conversation stumbled between the cousins, skirting around and over Sam’s head, and although none of J’s words were different, a perfect transcript of the conversation would show no differences between the J of now and the J of twenty four hours ago, there was something slightly off-kilter about him.  He seemed…muted.  Dimmed. Like a watercolor copy of an oil painting.

                  It took a few hours but all the stuff (art stuff, Sam noticed, suspicious without form or focus swirling behind his eyes) was eventually packed away. J stopped in the middle of his living room, glancing behind him to where Sam and Gabe stood in the doorway of his room, Sam trying hard not to sneak a peek at the canvas in the corner covered by a drape. 

                  When J began speaking his back was to the two of them. “Eight years ago my twin brother died in a house fire.  Claire, myself, and Amelia were all in house as well.  We lived.  He did not. After that things changed. People changed and trajectories were altered. That is what Claire was referring to earlier.  I apologize for my childish behavior.  It was absurd and excessive and flagrantly magenta and I am sorry to have caused trouble for either of you.” 

                  “Did you ever seek help?” Sam asked before he could stop himself.

                  J tilted his head to the side slightly and turned to face him, “I’m sorry, what?” 

                  Sam shifted uncomfortably and tired to shake the recriminating gaze Gabe was leveling at him, “Did you ever talk to anyone, a therapist, a counselor, a friend? After it all happened, I mean.”

                  Something softened in J’s face, his blue eyes glittered distantly, expression that of someone who is grateful others care but is well aware that their well-meaning advice is cute but useless, “No.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a maroon daughter to communicate with.” And with that J swept out of the room.

                  Gabe shook his head, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “He’s not the kind of broken that therapy can fix, doc.” 

                  Sam, at a loss for what to say, chuckled wryly and rubbed the back of his head. “It was worth a shot.”

                  “Nice of you, Sammy-boy, but not what he needs.” 

                  “If you say so, midget.”

                  “Ack! Not you too!  I am so _done_ with freakishly tall freaky freaks of freaking nature and their short-hating-ways!”

                  “That’s a lot of freaks in one sentence.”

                  “There’s a lot of freaks living in this building,” Gabe grumbled.

                  And that was how Sam Winchester knew everything was going to be okay. At least for now. 

…

                  A hand on the top of Dean’s head drew his attention away from the sobbing teen in his arms.  He looked up and met blue eyes that really had no right to still be this shocking.

                  “Thank you, Dean.”

                  “Dad,” Claire hiccupped, leaning away from Dean as his arms loosened around her.

                  “Hello, Claire.” 

                  “I’m sorry.  I’m still upset, but I’m not really upset at you anymore.”

                  J shook his head, “No, be upset if that’s what you need. What I did was wrong. I have a lot to answer for in this life.”

                  Claire gave a snotty, tear-filled snort, “God, Daddy, it’s not the end of the world.” 

                  J moved his hand up to smooth Claire’s hair back from her face. “I am sorry, my beautiful, golden child.” 

                  Claire rolled red eyes and choked on a teary laugh, as she said “Seriously, Dad?” and launched herself to her feet and threw her arms around his middle.

                  Dean felt a sudden brush of cold air across the top of his head as J’s hand lifted free of his hair to come up and embrace Claire. 

…

                  A battered used car pulled up to Mary Winchester’s bed and breakfast around midnight that night.  A blonde woman, probably somewhere in her mid thirties but with years of hard living dragging her overly-made-up face down in the late thirties or early forties region parked and staggered out of the driver’s seat.  She tottered over to the backseat and dragged out two mismatched, knock-off brand suitcases out, dropping both on the gravel drive as she slammed the door shut.  Scooping the bags up, she teetered up the front steps and into the reception area.

                  Mary looked up from the desk, “Hello, welcome to Orcastle, how may I help you?”

                  “I have a reservation.  Amelia Novak, one room.”

                  “Okay, and how long will you be staying with us, Ms. Novak?”

                  “Indefinitely.”


	16. I Spend These Waking Hours Looking for the Sandman

**Chapter 15: I Spend These Waking Hours Looking for the Sandman**

                  _“Jimmy?”_

_Silence._

_“Jimmy?” ten-year-old Castiel reached out a tiny hand and poked his brother in the ribs._

_Still more silence._

_**“Jimmy,”** Castiel hissed.  _

_“What, El?” Jimmy grumbled, rolling over until they were almost nose to nose._

_“This isn’t normal, is it?”_

_Jimmy rolled his head around, taking in the sheets their mother had draped all around the room, the sleeping bags filled with their sleeping brothers scattered across the plush carpet of their huge sunken living room, their mother’s easel set up at the epicenter of all the chaos, her straight back and messy hair as she painted, steadily, with a sharp, near-manic focus on the work in front of her._

_Castiel had unconsciously mirrored his brother’s motions and now both twins’ eyes returned back to center, staring at each other._

_“No, it’s not,” Jimmy said, quietly, strongly, definitively._

_“How do you know?” Castiel could feel his words whine out and he didn’t stop them. He had wanted his brother to reassure him, to tell him he was wrong.  Jimmy had failed the test._

_“How do you?” Jimmy always knew him too well._

_“Things weren’t the same color they used to be.”_

_Jimmy sighed and his face crumpled a little bit.  Castiel sank back into his sleeping bag a little bit, feeling guilty that he’d made his brother sad again._

_“Don’t tell Mom or Raf stuff like that,” Jimmy advised._

_“Why not?” Castiel knew that he shouldn’t have said that, Jimmy’s face had crumpled even more. He was starting to resemble a tissue, sad and used up._

_“They don’t like it, they might send you away.”_

_“Away?”_

_“You know what I mean, El.”_

_Castiel knew what he meant.  He just didn’t want to._

_“Yeah, I know.”_

_There was a pause. Castiel curled more into his sleeping bag, thinking that Jimmy had dozed off in his own plush cocoon._

_“I’m sorry, El,” Jimmy whispered, voice muffled by his sleeping bag._

_“I’m sorry too, Jimmy.” Castiel wasn’t sure what Jimmy was apologizing for.  Jimmy wasn’t the bad twin._

The dream shifted and bent and Castiel shuddered under a thin layer of sheets and sweat. 

                  _Thirteen-year-old Castiel sat on the edge of his twin’s bed.  “Jimmy.”_

_The darkness folded itself around then, interrupted only by sporadic eruptions of red and blue light outside Jimmy’s window.  Jimmy’s room faced the driveway; Castiel knew it was so Jim would the first to know if their father came home.  Jimmy knew that Castiel knew, but they still didn’t talk about it._

_“Yeah, El?” Jimmy’s eyes gleamed cold and blue in the dark as he turned his face away from the window, leaning against the glass and resting heavily on the window seat._

_“Lucifer was arrested again.”_

_“They’re bringing him home.”_

_“Raf paid bail.”_

_Jimmy nodded. Castiel nodded back dumbly, not sure what else to do.  Jimmy turned his face away, leaning his forehead against the glass with a dull thump. Castiel moved over to sit on the other end of the window seat, a perfect mirror of Jimmy._

_“How very desaturated cyan this is.”_

_Jimmy sighed, “That’s a good color for it, El.”_

_“I know.”_

Castiel hated desaturated cyan. Horrible color. A great tide of it rose up behind his eyes and the dream rippled with it. 

                  _“I got accepted! I’m leaving! I’m getting out of this shit hole and going to university!”_

_“Alizarin Crimson.”_

_“What, El?”_

_“I’m happy for you.”_

_“It’s not too late, apply to schools, you’ll get in, you’ve got the test scores.”_

_Castiel sighed, watching as Jimmy whirled through his room, tapping at his computer keyboard then zipping away to grab a textbook or a notebook or sheet music, he couldn’t sit still, all intense, focused exhilaration._

_Joy._

_“Alizarin Crimson,” Castiel muttered._

University hadn’t been so bad, but the dream wasn’t all that interested in the good times. 

                  _Castiel was searingly, blindingly drunk.  He had paint all over his skin and clothes, not flecks but deep, thick, heavy splotches with puddles of paint thinner in between, burning off his skin just like the honey liquor burned off his memories and smothered his demons.  Really, with all this numbing pain he should have been able to rest by now.  Wasn’t that the point of booze? To dim the darkness and bring out the peace?_

_He was nineteen and surrounded by half-finished art and half drunk bottles and all alone in the dead of night and he **still couldn’t forget.**_

_Her face, all big blue eyes and wild dark hair, when Rafael finally called the people to take her away._

_His face in the mirror._

_Big, blue eyes._

_Dark, messy hair._

_Her words, every single one she had ever spoken to him smouldering beneath his skin._

_Rafael looking around his shabby studio apartment and saying: “You’re just like her, you know.”_

_The great gaping hole in his brain where he had finally forgotten to remember his father’s face._

_Did he have blue eyes? Dark hair?_

_Somehow Castiel didn’t think so._

_All the thoughts running rapid-fire through him, demanding attention and consideration and he **just didn’t have the fucking time to think everything, did he?**_

_Castiel didn’t realize Jimmy had walked into his apartment until his latest bottle and his latest brush were taken out of his hands and he was manhandled into the shower. He blinked once, the word “Jimmy-?” falling off his tongue just before Jimmy turned the shower on full blast, washing the night’s indignities from Castiel’s skin and clothes._

_Wrapped in a towel and propped up between his twin’s shoulder and the arm of the couch, Castiel turned his face into Jimmy’s arm and muttered, “I’m just like her.”_

_“No you’re not. You’re cerulean and she’s…a really disgusting color.”_

_“You’re not much of an artist.”_

_“We all try our best, don’t we?”_

_Castiel had the feeling that Jimmy was talking about more than his dearth of color knowledge._

Castiel thrashed and twisted, trying to escape the grip of his sheets and his past. 

                  _“El, I need to talk to you.”_

_“Sure, speak.”_

_“No, I need you to stop…that, and talk to me.”_

_Castiel set down the snarl of wires and computer guts he had been incorporating into his multimedia piece.  They were twenty now and sharing an apartment, better than his crappy little studio. Their bedrooms were still across the hall from each other.  Just like when they were children._

_“Jimmy, you look-”_

_“Gray?”_

_Castiel narrowed his eyes, “Beige.”_

_Jimmy laughed hoarsely, scrubbing a hand down his face, “You always were contrary.”_

_“Thank you.”_

_“Not a compliment.”_

_And for a second they were back in familiar territory.  But it was a short second._

_Jimmy sighed, “I need to talk to you.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“You know my girlfriend, Amelia?”_

_“Graduate student, three years older, distastefully flavescent.”_

_“You don’t like her.”_

_“I don’t like the color flavescent.”_

_“She’s pregnant.”_

_Castiel stilled, brain whirling, trying to form some sort of reaction to this news. “How…” there was no color for this._

_“You went to middle school health class, El, you know how!” Jimmy huffed, somewhere between laughing and snapping._

_“You’re going to have a child.”_

_“And a wife.”_

_“If you must,” Castiel muttered, turning back to his work and cracking a smile when Jimmy playfully shoved him._

_He glanced over and saw Jimmy grinned, eyes wide and dopey with happiness, “I’m going to have a family, El.  A real one this time.”_

_“Alizarin Crimson.”_

_“Thanks.”_

Jimmy had been too young, but that had never stopped him from getting what he wanted or needed.  Castiel curled in on himself, tighter and tighter as if that could ward off the dream’s inevitable end. 

                  _Castiel was watching the news when he answered the phone.  Meg’s head was a warm, sleepy weight on his lap and he was almost happy watching strangers shout commentary on the depravity of other strangers._

_“Your local Weather Station, what’s your complaint?” Castiel said on reflex when the screen lit up and the sound clicked on._

_“El, you’re not going to like this.”_

_Castiel was watching the news as it clicked over to a new story, one with fewer strangers but more depravity.  He knew exactly what Jimmy; four years into fatherhood and a successful marriage, four months removed from law school graduation, was talking about.  Castiel already didn’t like it.  There was nothing to like._

_Jimmy drew in a single tight breath, “Lucifer’s been accused of murder. And some other things but the murder and the manslaughter are the main issue.”_

_“Yes,” Castiel didn’t see how any other words were necessary.  He’d seen what had happened.  He was watching the news._

_“I’m representing him in court.”_

_Castiel’s teeth clenched, “Quite cordovan, I’m sure.”_

_Jimmy might have made a comment about his color choice.  Castiel didn’t know.  He had hung up the phone._

There was so much more to that story, so much more to what Lucifer had done and what Jimmy was willing to protect him from and what Castiel could not forgive but Castiel could feel the end creeping up on him, little trickles of phantom warmth, ghost fire curling through his spine.

_Jimmy walked over and took Castiel’s bag, placing a hand on his shoulder and gripping it tight.  “You okay, little brother?” he asked._

_“Little brother? I think not.  And I am quite aquamarine,” Castiel felt his throat tighten around the words, resisting the speaking of them, unsure whether or not he could trust this face, so like his but so different beneath the surface._

_Jimmy snorted, “You know I don’t get it when you talk in your little color-coded riddles.” His voice was tight too._

_“I know. Why do you think I say them?”_

_“You always were a mess.”_

_“Hmm…”_

_There was a pause._

_“Seriously, bro, how’re you holding up?” And there was so much more to that question than just Castiel’s recent break up._

_“Meg is holding my personal possessions hostage.  How do you think I am ‘holding up’?” a year is a long time to go without your twin._

_“Ooh, ex is already fighting dirty?  I’m sorry, man. Come on; let’s get you into the kitchen so Amelia can feed you.  You look starved. And leave the trenchcoat, you know Amelia hates it.” Maybe a year wasn’t so long._

_Jimmy carried the duffle bag off.  Only Claire heard Castiel murmur “Thank you, brother,” as he ran a weary hand down his face._

_Castiel felt arms wrap around his waist as Claire, little Claire with Jimmy’s eyes, hugged him one more time and grabbed his hand and tugged him towards the warm kitchen and comforting family._

_It was a quiet evening._

Castiel threw himself into wakefulness at three am.  Something burned beneath his skin and he thrashed and rolled in his bed, trying to escape hungry flames that tugged at his clothes and nibbled on his hair. Blue eyes clicked open and for several seconds stared sightlessly at the room, tracking smoke only he could see.

He padded through the apartment’s living space, pausing for just a second to peer through Claire’s half-open door and watch her dream peacefully.  But he moved on, drifting down the stairs and into the bookshop where he brewed himself a cup of coffee in the back room, brought it out and sat on the counter, staring out the windows and daring the day to come.

                  He wasn’t sure when Claire and Dean arrived, but they did. Sitting on the counter, one on either side, bracketing his body and buffering him from the cold. Castiel put a gentle arm around his niece’s shoulders and felt some of his tension fall away as she relaxed into his side, leaning her head against his shoulder as she slipped an arm around his lower back. 

                  Dean didn’t look at him, but Castiel could feel the other man’s arm sliding around his shoulders despite the fact that green eyes were fixed on the darkened streets outside.  Castiel didn’t really rest his head on Dean’s shoulder so much as just let the former cop take some of his weight, let him hold him up, just for a little while.

                  And for a few moments Castiel was at peace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s title is a line from the song ‘Sandman’ by the band Hurts. It’s a reference to the legend of the Sandman, the master of dreams and nightmares.


	17. Hello Beautiful, Haven't We Changed?

**Chapter 16: Hello Beautiful, Haven’t We Changed?**

                  Gabe somehow knew where to find them when he came down to the bakery at five am.  By five thirty there were plates and pastries and froofy coffee drinks in front of them and Sam had staggered down the stairs at the urging of Dean and harassment of Gabe. They ate a quiet, lazy breakfast. No one, not even Gabe, felt any real need to speak.  Words would break something fragile they had built here and no one could bear that.  Instead they slid in and out of each other’s personal space, snagging croissants and donuts and fancy flaky French breads only Gabe could pronounce or name.

                  One by one they drifted away, Gabe packing up the crumbly remains of their feast, Sam whisking away coffee mugs to be scrubbed clean, Castiel sweeping away crumbs Gabe had missed (or, more likely, ignored), Dean and Claire grabbing their stuff for school.  Sam and Gabe had gone away to their practices, both medical and culinary, by the time Claire raced back through the bookshop, Dean on her heels.  She stopped to give Castiel a tight, almost crushing hug as if she could squeeze into him all her regret and forgiveness from their spat yesterday before whirling away, out the door and into the sun that was crawling its way into the sky.

                  Dean paused in front of Castiel; brow furrowed as if he wanted to say or do _something_ but couldn’t quite feel out what it was exactly.  He was about to turn away and go when Castiel spoke.

                  “No hug for me, then?  Rude, Winchester.”

                  Dean turned, brows raised in consternation, “Talking like one of us grammar plebeians now, J?”

                  Castiel shrugged, not fighting his smile, “You’re using the word plebeian now?”

                  “Hey, I’m allowed to sound smart too!” Dean protested lightly, a grin sneaking up on his face, “And plebeian is a historical term, I’ll have you know.”

                  “Why thank you, Mr. Winchester.  I would never have guessed,” Castiel ironically held up a heavy Roman history reference book. 

                  “You are just the soul of sass today, aren’t you?” Dean said mock wonderingly.

                  Castiel shrugged, “Irreverence heals all wounds.”

                  Dean smirked, “Unhealthy coping mechanisms, you’re one of us alright.”

                  Castiel tipped his head to the side, “So is that a no on the hug, then?”

                  “Fine, you bastard,” Dean said teasingly, throwing an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and dragging him in. 

                  Castiel liked Dean’s hugs.  They were warm and tight and made him feel safe and protected.  He hadn’t felt safe like that in years, maybe decades.

                  It was a short embrace, a few seconds and Dean was gone, out the door and waving a cheerful goodbye, a smile on his face and his laptop bag in his hand.

                  Castiel smiled and returned to sorting his shop.

…

                  The day was a sluggish, soft, unhurried one as days after or before storms tend to be.

                  Amelia painted her fingernails and toenails over and over again, trying to get them _just right._

                  Sam saw a few patients, none of them serious, none of them contagious.

                  Dean lectured on ancient Greece and Rome, then played movie clips and had his students point out the inaccuracies.  

                  Gabe sold cupcakes like crazy. It was just one of _those days_ (whatever that meant to non-bakers).

                  Castiel’s sass charmed some customers; a rarity in and of itself so startling the bookseller honestly wasn’t sure how to handle it.

                  Claire drifted through school then texted her dad that she was going to play soccer with some friends on the high school’s soccer field after school and hitch a ride home with Dean. 

…

                  Castiel closed the bookshop when Amelia Novak appeared.  The only customer at four o’clock in the afternoon and wasn’t that just grand?

                  “Hello Amelia.”

                  “Hello Castiel.” 

…

                  “Catch me if you can, Braeden!”

                  “Aw, hell no, Novak, you did _not_ steal the ball from me just to flirt with Ben!”

                  “So what if I did, Krissy?”

                  “You’re going to the Spring formal with me, right?”

                  “God, could you pick a lamer time to ask her, Ben?”

                  “Krissy, no need to sound pissy.”

                  “Ben, poetry is not the career for you.”

                  “Fine, see what you get next Valentine’s Day, Claire.” 

…

                  “Why don’t we take this conversation upstairs?”

                  Amelia nodded stiffly and followed Castiel’s lead.  No need to make this a public spectacle.

…

                  Three thirteen-year-olds sprawled on the grass behind the high school, plucking tufts of brown-green grass and watching them flutter away in the wind.

                  Krissy whistled through her teeth, “So you two lovebirds are seriously going to the Spring Formal together.”

                  “Sorry if this makes it weird for you, Kris-”

                  “Shut up, Novak, I totally just scored fifty bucks off Garth. The sucker bet me that Ben wouldn’t man up and ask you until after Spring Break.”

                  Ben choked on a laugh.

                  Krissy cackled, “That doesn’t even include the cash I’m getting from Ben’s mom and Ellen!”

                  Ben twitched, “What?”

                  Krissy snickered, “They thought Claire would have to ask you!”

                  Claire giggled as Ben spluttered indignantly.

…

                  The door shut with a click.  Castiel could feel her eyes stabbing into his back, piercing his shoulder blades and pinning him to the door whose handle he was still clutching. He knew what he would see when he turned around, a sight he had never wished for in a thousand years.

                  Amelia Novak standing in the middle of his apartment, settled into the heart of his inner sanctum like a virus in the blood. 

                  But Castiel turned around anyway, “I never stole her from you. You gave her to me and walked away. _You_ left _her_.  _You_ left _us_.”

                  “I left to clear my head and you left the fucking _state._ ” Her voice was level but tight, hissing out between her teeth. 

                  “There was a _note,_ Amelia, I have it memorized. Shall I recite it?”

                  “I left that out of fucking _courtesy_!”

                  “ ‘ _Castiel, This is all just too much right now.  Take care of Claire, I’m going…somewhere.  I’ll let you know-’_ ”

                  “I didn’t ask for you to take my baby away from me!”

                  “ _‘Signed: Amelia-’_ ”

                  She was sobbing now, huge theatrical sobs and Castiel wasn’t sure if they were real or fake or somewhere in between.  When had the lines gotten so blurred?  “My baby, my little girl, she was all I had left-!”

                  Castiel’s voice was level, smooth, implacable and unstoppable, “ _‘P-fucking-S: Don’t try to find me.’_ ”

                  “Don’t make me the bad guy here, Cas-ti-el!” She screamed each syllable of his name, hurling them at him like weapons.

                  “Then what are you, Amelia?” he asked her, voice still, cold and dark like a pool of water forgotten in the back of a cave lost to time.

…

                  “Dad’s gonna _freak out_ if I go to Spring Formal,” Claire snickered, dusting the grass off her shirt.

                  Krissy snorted, “You live in a building full of nothing but men. Slightly gay men, but still…”

                  “Krissy!” Claire giggled.

                  “Oh please, your dad?  Dean? Totally into each other.”

                  “Kris, you realize your talking about my godfather’s love life, right?” Ben raised his eyebrows.

                  Claire sighed, “Yeah, well, she’s talking about my dad too. At least Dean seems like he might have been kind of like a player sort of guy at some point. My dad is just…you know…”

                  “Ground control to Major Tom?” Krissy quoted with a wry grin.

                  Claire shoved her playfully, “No.  Well, yes, but no!”

                  The three preteens dissolved into laughter again. 

…

                  “How much did you have to drink before coming here?” Castiel hissed at Amelia as she screamed at him. 

                  She paused, face flushed to the roots of her blonde hair. So like Claire…so very like… “So what, getting a little tipsy is fine when it’s for _art_ but not for anyone else now?” she snarled. 

                  “I was young then, barely twenty,” Castiel said with dark, quiet intensity.

                  “Barely holding it together!” she shot back, “You were a _flake._ You were nothing and no one and no matter how many paintings you sold or books you read or trash novels you wrote or bees you kept _you were still nothing_.”

                  “I was liquor and dark nights and questionable companions a _lifetime ago_ , Amelia, that’s your life _now_ and you think I’m going to let you bring a child, MY CHILD, into _that?”_

                  “SHE WAS NEVER YOUR CHILD!” 

…

                  “You should totally get ready for the dance at my house,” Krissy said, slinging an arm around Claire’s shoulder as they walked across the field to where Ben’s mom waited to give Krissy and Ben a ride home. 

                  “Are you going?” Ben sounded surprised.

                  Claire kicked him, “Be nice.”

                  He shrugged as if to say ‘I was being nice’.

                  “Hells yeah I’m going!” Krissy fist-pumped, “That guy from fifth period asked me like a week ago.”

                  “Did you say yes?” Claire asked. 

                  “Yes, what do you think I’d do?”

                  “Leave him hanging for a week while you contemplated strategy,” Ben muttered.

                  Krissy laughed, “This is why we’re friends. So, Novak, my house, before the dance, getting ready with real girls and real girly makeup, no weird dads or midget uncles or Winchesters lurking around?” 

                  “Why not?” Claire grinned.

…

                  Amelia raged around him, a dark sea of cutting words and objects flung across the room, crashing all around him in cinematic slow motion. She was a storm and he was an island caught in the middle, tangled in the hurricane but only superficially touched by her frenzy. 

…

                  “Hey, Dean.”

                  Dean looked up from grading papers, “Hey, kid.”

                  “You leaving soon?”

                  “Yeah, lets get out of here.”

…

                  Amelia was orbiting him like the rings of Saturn, meteors periodically crashing to the ground as the jagged, furious belt of her being swirled around him.

…

                  Claire reached for the radio.

                  “Hey!” Dean said lightly, “What are the rules of the road?”

                  “Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts her cakehole.”

                  “Gold star, young padawan.”

…

                  Muffled shouts and crashes reverberated through the building and downstairs in the bakery Gabe couldn’t pretend they were wild music and an artistic frenzy any longer.

…

                  Amelia was drifting deeper and deeper into his personal space, stabbing with sharp, tearing words and flinching back every time he returned with a cool, calculated, goddamn _serene_ syllable or two. 

…

                  Sam looked up from his computer screen.  His last appointment of the day had been two hours and a few dozen news articles ago.  He blinked away the afterimages left from the computer screen’s glare and assessed the information before him. 

                  Castiel Novak: artist, writer, hobbyist beekeeper, died at age 25 in a house fire a mere month or so away from his 26th birthday, leaving his famous AngelFall series of novels (written under a penname) unfinished. Survived by mother Angela Novak, brothers Lucifer, Rafael, and Zachariah Novak as well as twin James Novak and niece Claire Novak. 

                  James Novak: lawyer, known for winning the near-impossible trial of Lucifer Novak with a plea deal and a powerhouse closing argument. Disappeared from his practice, his social circles, his _life_ after a house fire killed his twin brother a month or so before their 26th birthday. 

                  There was one photo of the two of them together at a gallery opening for one of Castiel’s showings.  The brothers stood side by side, Castiel in a trenchcoat and a white button-down with ruffled hair, a backwards blue tie and a slightly surprised look on his face, James with a sharp smile and sharper suit.  They looked happy, young, maybe twenty.  And they couldn’t be more different despite their identical faces.

                  Sam ran a hand down his face then through his hair. 

                  God, this had better not mean what he thought it did.

…

                  Gabe saw the rental car parked in front of the bookstore.

                  “God damn bitch,” he whispered before bolting for the stairs.

…

                  Sam walked into the bookstore just in time to catch Gabriel heading for the stairs.  For the first time, Sam heard the noise, saw the rental car and realized there might be something more going on than his neighbor’s eccentricity. 

                  “Gabriel, wait up.”

…

                  Claire walked into the bookstore, “Guys, Dad, I’m home.”

                  “Hey J, Sammy, we’re back!” hollered Dean. 

                  Claire frowned at the rumble of feet pounding up the stairs and the dull roar of shouting voices above them.  Beside her Dean tensed and when she looked up her friendly history teacher neighbor who may or may not have a thing for her dad was replaced with the sharpened eyes and fierce concentration of a city SWAT officer.

                  “Stay behind me, Claire, I need to see what’s going on upstairs.” And then Dean was gone and Claire was left pounding after him. 

…

                  By the time the door to the Novaks’ apartment swung open all the way, Dean’s eyes were already darting around the room, cataloguing the wreckage, assessing the damage.  But in that moment it was as if he were struck with a strange sort of selective color-blindness. Everything around him seemed to be monochromatic, black and white and worn-out like an old movie. Nothing but the people, two figures standing, frozen in the same instant Dean was trapped in, were illuminated by aggressive, toxic flares of color.  They burned against Dean’s retinas. 

                  The woman’s hair flashing neon bottled-brassy gold under the lights.

                  Her nails, red like artificial apples in her bony hand, arched and drawn back on the recoil from delivering some sort of blow. 

                  Blood, red like the last drops of sunsets crawling down a man’s pale cheek, outlining four small jagged fingernail claw marks. 

                  Electric blue eyes burning in their stillness as the thin trails of blood crept towards a starched white shirt collar. 

                  Two bodies frozen in one instant of violence, one in immobility, the other in motion. 

                  The moment broke when Claire jumped in front of Dean, placing one small hand (her nail polish was chipped, faded and purple, Claire never painted her nails red) on his chest, silently begging him for stillness. Dean tensed beneath her fingers, every instinct telling him to act before this escalated.

                  “Mom?” Claire’s voice shook and it twisted an invisible knife in Dean’s gut to hear her hoping against hope that there was some other explanation for this woman’s toxic presence in her home.

                  “Amelia, don’t,” J’s voice was like shattered glass grating together, deep and dark and daring her to defy him. 

                  She relaxed her arm, pasted on a smile and turned to her daughter, “Hi sweetie, Mommy’s home.” 

                  “Amelia, _please._ ” And the plea in J’s deep smoke-and-brimstone voice stopped her for a second, gave her pause for a moment.

                  But she didn’t stay paused, she wasn’t a bad film where you could hit stop at any time and allow it to stew indefinitely.  She tipped her head towards J and said, slow and steady and almost sweetly, “Fuck you, Castiel Novak.” 

                  Until that moment Dean didn’t believe people could actually look shattered. J- no- Casti-whatever-the-hell-his-name-really-was, looked shattered in that instant. 


	18. But You Crucified My Heart of Gold

**Chapter 17: But You Crucified My Heart of Gold**

**_Previously on Half-Price Gemini:_ **

“Mom?” Claire’s voice shook and it twisted an invisible knife in Dean’s gut to hear her hoping against hope that there was some other explanation for this woman. Something better than blood.

                  “Amelia, don’t,” J’s voice was like shattered glass grating together, deep and dark and daring her to defy him. 

                  She relaxed her arm, pasted on a smile and turned to her daughter, “Hi sweetie, Mommy’s home.” 

                  “Amelia, _please._ ” And the plea in J’s deep smoke-and-brimstone voice stopped her for a second, gave her pause for a moment.

                  But she didn’t stay paused, she wasn’t a bad film where you could hit pause at any time and allow it to stew indefinitely.  She tipped her head towards J and said, slow and steady and almost sweetly, “Fuck you, Castiel Novak.” 

                  Until that moment Dean didn’t believe people could look shattered. J- no- Casti-whatever-the-hell-his-name-really-was, looked shattered in that instant. 

**_Now:_ **

                  “How have things been with _Uncle Cassie_?”

                  Castiel could feel the sick slice of Amelia twisting the knife, digging deeper and deeper into him until there was nothing left to wound. He couldn’t look at Sam or Dean. He didn’t want to see their faces.   
                  He forced himself to look at Claire; he needed to see her. 

                  “They’ve been good… Mom.” Everyone could hear the pause in her voice before the name, as if she had to force it out, “Should we really be talking about this here, though?” her voice was thready, high and tense and Castiel wanted to wrap her in his arms and protect her from the bad things like he had when she was a little girl.  Like Jimmy had for him when they were children. 

                  “Why not?” Amelia gestured expansively, and Castiel had to force himself not to flinch away from her drifting hands, “We’re all family here, aren’t we?”

                  _Family._ What a curious word.  Castiel tightened his jaw and kept his eyes fixed on a point just beyond Amelia’s head.  He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. He couldn’t bear it. “Amelia, I think you need to leave now.”

                  “Do I?  Do I really? Because I was planning on getting to know _my_ daughter if that’s alright with you, _El_.”

                  Something sharp and hot flared in his chest, pulsing and rolling like his veins were brambles and his heartbeat thorns, a burning bush consuming him from the inside out. “ _Never refer to me by that name_.” His voice was dark and thick like blood from a wound. 

                  Amelia bat her eyelashes, “Why?  Wasn’t it your favorite nickname? It’s what Jimmy called you-”

                  Castiel could feel himself teetering on the edge of breaking and for the first time in almost a decade he wished he couldn’t _feel_ anymore, “Stop,” he ground the word out, pulverized it between his teeth before spitting it in her face.

                  “Mom, why don’t we leave, go get coffee?” and there was Claire, ever the peacemaker. So much like her real father. Jimmy.  How had Castiel managed to raise a child like that?

                  Amelia wavered but – “No, sweetie-pie, your _uncle_ and I still have some things to discuss.” 

                  “Amelia, cut the shit,” Gabriel snapped. 

                  A hot pulse of misguided rage flared in Castiel’s throat and he turned on Gabe, “ _Stay out of this_ ,” he snarled, barely aware of the words as they left his lips. 

                  “Dean, Gabe, why don’t we get Claire out of here, go back downstairs to the bakery,” Sam’s words were soft, murmured to his companions in an undertone. Castiel didn’t think he was supposed to hear them.  He did anyway, and so did Claire.

                  “No, Sam, you’re not getting me out of the way, this is between me and my… mother and Dad!”  Claire, his brave girl, lifted her chin and stood her ground.

                  “Go with Sam,” Castiel began but was cut off by Amelia.

                  “Oh, sweetie-pie, you don’t need to pretend anymore.  The jig’s up and mommy’s home.  You’re safe, you’re home, you don’t have to pretend he’s your father anymore.” 

                  Castiel really thought he should be used to feeling like someone had kicked him in the chest by now. 

                  Claire’s lips pressed together and she looked down, her shoulders were shaking. In his peripheral vision Castiel saw Dean’s arm come up and around Claire’s shoulders, holding her steady, and _why hadn’t Dean said anything yet?_

                  But it was Gabriel who spoke, “You _bitch_ , who said anything about her father?  Screw biology, Castiel’s her _dad_!”

                  “Her father is James Novak, you-”

                  “Yes, he is,” Castiel interjected, voice strident and tense and even rougher than usual.  He could feel the stress tightening his smoke-damaged vocal chords, twisting his fire-scarred muscles, making him _ache_ , “I’m not going to debate paternity with you, Amelia.  But I draw the line at involving the rest of my family in this… _problem_.  This is between you and me.  Whatever sins I have committed and abuses you have to heap on my head can be rehashed in private. For now, let me say this, Claire may not be my daughter but she is my _child_ and I will defend her with my dying breath, even if I must protect her from you. Do you understand me?”

                  “You have no legal right to her,” Amelia reminded him lightly.

                  “Do. You.  Understand. Me.”

                  Amelia’s eyebrows arched and her lips pursed as if she were surprised to see him showing a bit more backbone then usual.  “I want to see my daughter.  I want to know her.” 

                  “We will negotiate later.  Now get out.”

                  Amelia opened her mouth to speak but Castiel overrode her, “I may have no legal right to keep my child but I do have one to keep my home.”

                  Before she could begin a repartee Dean continued Castiel’s thought, “A home which you are currently standing in, have caused no small amount of property damage to and have assaulted the owner within.  By law the occupant of this apartment has full right to _shoot you_ should you continue to menace him on his property. Do you get the picture?” And still Dean didn’t look at him. 

                  Amelia shifted her stance into something a bit less agressvily posturing, she looked at Castiel, searing her stare into his soul, “We’ll talk later,” she turned to Claire, “We’ll talk later, okay, sweetie-pie?” 

                  Claire nodded dumbly, still leaning on Dean as Amelia swept out.

                  Silence dropped upon the apartment like a smothering carpet. Castiel held completely still for a single moment before sliding into action.  He paced the perimeter of his living room/dining area, picking up things Amelia had disrupted, reorganizing them, fitting his world back together piece by piece. 

                  “Castiel,” Gabe began, sounding helpless and sad.

                  “I apologize for snapping at you, Gabriel, my behavior was appallingly out of line,” Castiel said tersely, not looking up from the lampshade he was obsessively straightening. 

                  “Not, that’s not, Casti-” Gabriel sighed, realizing he had no words to fix this.

                  Castiel ignored him.  The lampshade was still crooked.  He needed to fix that.

                  “Hey, we need to get those cuts looked at,” Sam took a hesitant step towards where Castiel was restacking CD cases on the floor then stopped short, unsure of whether or not he should continue. 

                  “They’re fine,” Castiel said shortly.

                  “No, there’s a high risk of infection,” Sam fell back on what he knew, babbling slightly as he tried to fill the void. 

                  “They’re fine, everything is fine,” Castiel clipped the words with his teeth, short and tight syllables like phonetic mini-skirts. 

                  “Fingernails carry a lot of germs, cuts like those, from nails, especially colored ones…”

                  “ _Everything is fine,_ ” Castiel said, voice wound tighter than a watch spring. 

                  “You really should-” and there was Sam, trying again, and there Gabriel was, looking concerned and hey, the magazines went _everywhere_ after Amelia swept them off the coffee table…

                  “GODDAMMIT, whatever-the-fuck-your-name-is, go with Sam, get your face patched up and then you can do whatever the fuck it is you’re doing!” and that was Dean. His voice was an angry, rhythmic roar through Castiel’s ears, like a furious ocean. 

                  Castiel sat down abruptly, surprised to find couch beneath him where there had been only air before.  He turned over whatever he had in his hands.  He toyed with it, skimming the pages, sending them fluttering as he stared straight ahead, “I am sorry, Dean,” he said into the silence, voice soft and distant and probably a bit sad too. 

                  “Yeah, well, so am I,” Dean growled, giving Claire one last one-armed hug before stomping through the door and out into the hallway.

                  Claire walked over to sit next to Castiel.  He put his arms around her and she snaked hers around him and they hung on.

                  Gabe sighed, “I’ll make you lot some coffee, you look like refugees from a war zone.  Sam, you work your doctor magic on Castiel’s face.  Would hate for all that unearthly beauty to go to waste.” 

                  There was a time, when Castiel was very young, when he would always believe things were fine so long as Gabriel was making jokes.  Castiel had grown up since then. 

…

                  Dean paced his apartment restlessly, trying not to hear the dull murmur of voices next door.  Something dark and aching twisted in his gut and he closed his eyes against the image of a pale, blood-spattering face and shattered blue eyes. 

…

                  It was late, Castiel knew it was late, that hours had passed and darkness had eaten up the sky and that Claire had school the next day and that he really should open his store in the morning but he was having a hard time caring. It was as if the events of that afternoon had used up all his reservoirs of emotion and left him behind, an empty husk.

…

                  Claire snuck into Castiel’s room, slipping past his silent vigil in the living room and behind the paint-flecked door (how on earth did he manage to get paint _everywhere_?). Ignoring the rest of the room, the sketchbooks and easels and typewriter and focusing on her target, her goal.  She dropped to the floor, sliding on her stomach until she was half under the bed, reaching for her prize.

                  There it was. 

…

                  Castiel blinked and stirred when Claire dropped onto the seat beside him, turning towards her and the box in her hands with curious eyes.

…

                  Claire opened the box in her lap and pulled out the first thing that caught her eye.  A photo album (also decorated with paint spatters, Claire wondered at how paint seemed to cling to everything Castiel owned).  She flicked past the cover and the page identifying it as a photo album (as if it could be anything else, ha!), and came to rest on the first set of pictures.

                  She looked up at Castiel, who seemed transfixed by the pages in front of them.

                  “Hey,” she gently got his attention, “Tell me about this one?”

…

                  Castiel drew the book away from her, onto his lap, and put an arm around her shoulders, letting her rest her head against his chest. 

                  “This is Jimmy and I’s high school graduation.  He was always the smart one, don’t laugh, it’s true, he got good grades and participated in clubs – you are laughing, I can hear you – he was the perfect little student.  He’s the reason I went to university in the first place.  I almost didn’t bother…”

                  They went through the album page by page and sometimes Castiel would tell the story and sometimes he just let the pictures speak for themselves. He didn’t so much as shy away from the truth, including the good things and the bad, but he did edit some parts. Some things pre-teens aren’t ready to know about their families.

                  Eventually Claire nodded off against his chest, listening to the rumble of his words and Castiel set the photo album aside and scooped her into his arms, ignoring the twinge as the burns up and down his right arm protested the strain. He delivered her to her own room and gently tucked her in bed, just like he had when she was six years old and afraid of the dark. 

                  Claire secure, he stood up to leave, only to pause when fingers tugged at his sleeve, “Talk to Dean,” Claire whispered, “Tell him the stories,” she mumbled more but any words were lost to her pillow as she dropped back into slumber.

                  Castiel smiled tightly, smothering the ache in his chest at the thought of Dean, the angry, betrayed ring in the other man’s voice.  “It’s not that easy, sweetheart,” he whispered softly, kissing her on the forehead before drifting back to his room, where he lay awake, sketching the contours of a familiar face behind his eyelids.

…

                  The next morning Claire shook Castiel out of a fitful half-sleep to tell him, “I don’t want to go to school today.” 

                  There were dark circles under her eyes and a heaviness to her shoulders that Castiel knew all too well.  That’s why he told her, “Okay, then you’re sick.”

                  She blinked watery eyes, “Thank you.” 

                  He rolled over to face her, “Do you want to see your mother today?”

                  “No!” Claire bit her lip, looking guilty, “Kind of?  Yes?”

                  “Do what you need to do, it won’t hurt me.” Castiel was a truly excellent liar.

                  “Okay…” she shuffled her feet, “I just…after the things she said yesterday...but I’ve wanted a mom for _so long_ and she _is_ my mom, but god, I’m so _mad_ at her…”

                  Castiel sighed and smiled gently, “I understand.” 

                  “Really?” she peered at him through her bangs, he really needed to take her to get a haircut, or at least break out the safety scissors before she started looking like and extra from _The Addams Family_.

                  “Difficult mothers is something of a family tradition,” Castiel told her with a wry twist of his lips, struggling to ignore the pain as he remembered the way Dean had held him close after that episode with Angela.

                  Claire gave a pained chuckle, “At this rate I think the Fates are conspiring to tell me I really shouldn’t have kids.” 

                  Castiel sat up abruptly, scrubbing at his eyes and running his hands through his hair, “Now listen to me Claire, and listen well.  Your mother was nothing but wonderful to you the first five years of your life.  She did _everything_ right and she and your father cared _so much_ about you.  Please don’t forget that.  I know she’s… the way she is, now.  But please don’t forget that she was once a decent human being.  We have had our differences the entirety of our acquaintance, but she did used to be somebody worthwhile.”

                  Claire looked like she wanted to say something, ask something pressing and important, but in the end she caved and simply blurted, “You’re surprisingly eloquent before your morning coffee.”

                  Castiel took it in stride, laughing roughly, “I’m only manatee pre-coffee if I’ve actually been sleeping before someone decides to interrupt me. Now I’m just a bit… fuzzy-wuzzy.”

                  Claire snorted, “I see you’re in a Caryola mood today.”

                  Castiel shrugged, “Their colors are so intriguing, and have such splendid names.” He smiled at her, “It is in your power to forgive her if you so wish. But remember that forgiveness does not eliminate the past, it just means that you have accepted it.” He swung himself out of bed. Hmm, he hadn’t remembered to change out of his slacks or button-down shirt the night before. They were a wrinkled disaster today. Delightful, more ironing.

                  Claire plucked yesterday’s tie off his nightside table and held it out to him, “Have you?”

                  “Hmm?” Castiel fiddled with the cloth, worrying at the silk with his fingernails.

                  “Forgiven her?”

                  Castiel’s fingers stilled.  “I have accepted many things.”

                  “That’s not an answer.”

                  Castiel stood abruptly, “I require caffeinating.  This morning will be wenge without it.”  Wenge was a bit of a disgusting color, after all.

                  “Castiel!”

                  He stopped.  Claire had never really called him ‘Castiel’ before.  When she was young and he was just her uncle he was Unca Casti and later ‘Uncle Castiel’. He had never been just ‘Castiel’, completely free of any sort of family connection or identifier.

                  He looked back at her, face schooled into stillness.

                  “Have you forgiven him yet?” Claire asked, brows furrowed.

                  Castiel could have played dumb, but he didn’t.  He couldn’t.  He knew exactly what Claire was talking about.  And the answer was no.  He hadn’t forgiven his brother for dying and leaving him alone.

                  “Of course I have, Claire, nothing to forgive.” 

…

                  It was a terse, russet day at the book store.  Everything got under Castiel’s skin and itched there until even the slightest movement or sound made him twitch. 

                  “Whoa, dude, what’s up with you guys?”  Charlie said when she reported for work at 3 o’clock. 

                  “What?” Castiel snapped, looking up from where he had been aggressively shelving Harry Potter. 

                  “Dean’s in a nasty mood too.  What’s the deal with you guys?  And seriously, dude, you’re going to kill Voldemort before he even gets to book 7 with the way you’re handling ‘The Half-Blood Prince’.  Stand down, drop the horcrux and let’s negotiate.”

                  Castiel huffed, “Horcruxes do not appear in the series until book 6, Charlie.”

                  “Umm, weeeell, actually they show up definitively for the first time in ‘The Chambers of Secrets’ and an argument can be made that horcruxes have been around since book one.” 

                  Castiel _looked_ at her.

                  “Aaaand that glare could peel paint.  What up, J-man?  You and Dean are both in snits.” 

                  “Family members are being…” Castiel searched for a word that she would understand and came up blank, “…persimmon right now.” 

                  Charlie nodded along, “Okay, so what does that have to do with Dean?”

                  “Must you continue to babble?” Castiel grumped (completely unfairly, he realized, but the events of the past few days had done nothing to improve his mood or his outlook on life). 

                  Charlie shrugged and scooped up some books, “Okay, no more babble from here, just if you want to talk, man, I’ll be over in adult sci-fi shelving away...”

                  “Thank you, Charlie,” he said to her retreating back. 

                  “No prob, J-man.” 

                  As her footfalls receded into the distance Castiel resisted the urge to slam his face into a conveniently placed shelf. 

…

                  Claire ran up to him behind the counter an hour or so later, clutching her cellphone, “I did it, I called her, we’re meeting at Gabe’s bakery for coffee, Gabe’ll be there to make sure everything goes okay, she made me promise not to bring you though, did I do the right thing?”  Her words poured from her mouth in a chaotic torrent and Castiel waited until the verbal deluge was finished before even trying to respond.

                  “Don’t go anywhere alone with her and make sure Gabriel is nearby at all times,” Castiel instructed. 

                  “Okay, Dad.” 

                  “I hope it goes well for you, sweetheart.” 

                  “Me too.” 

…

                  “She had irish coffee.”

                  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

                  “But we had a real conversation for the first time in eight years, so that’s something.” 

                  “Yes, it’s something.” 

…

                  Claire had already gone upstairs and Charlie had already headed home when Castiel ran into Dean.  It was on the communal stairwell, there was no reason for either to be there at the same time, the probability of this exact moment occurring was so astronomically low that Castiel almost wondered if the universe was having some sort of cosmic joke at his expense. 

                  Yes, definitely a cosmic joke.  Damn universe having a sense of humor. 

                  They stood there and stared at each other awkwardly for a moment or two, not sure what exactly to do or say but desperately wanting out of this moment _right freaking now._

                  Finally, Castiel broke the silence, ironic really, considering how many things he had broken lately.  “Hello, Dean.”

                  Dean’s lips tightened and Castiel wondered if that had been the wrong thing to say.  Then he wondered if there really was any right thing to say in this situation.  Dean just gritted his teeth and said tersely, “Why?”

                  Castiel sighed, “I had someone to protect.” 

                  “Was it worth it?”

                  “Yes.”

                  Dean nodded, and walked back up the stairs, back straight and tight with unspoken anger but shoulders slumped as if in defeat.

                  “Dean,” Castiel couldn’t watch him walk away like that. 

                  Dean stopped.  He did not turn around.

                  “I’m sorry.” 

                  “Yeah, so am I,” Dean said bitterly.  Neither man moved. 

                  “This is ridiculous,” Castiel commented acerbically. 

                  “No, you know what’s ridiculous?  Lying about your identity for eight years, _that’s_ ridiculous.  I don’t _know_ what’s gone down with your crazy little personal sideshow but I do know that all that is more than a little fucked up, man. So I don’t know, why don’t you get your shit together, figure out what’s true and what’s not and then we’ll talk. Okay?  Good.”  And then Dean strode off. 

                  Castiel sighed, “Nothing is going well today.” 

                  What an appallingly Persian Orange day this had turned out to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title comes from another song from the band Hurts, check them out, they're awesome!


	19. Nightmares Dressed Like Daydreams

**Chapter 18: Nightmares Dressed Like Daydreams**

                  Dinner at the Novak apartment was a quiet, strained affair. Castiel and Claire picked at their food, unable to completely give up on the idea of having dinner but ultimately not interested in the action of eating itself. 

                  “Should I call Mom?” Claire asked, sitting on the counter and towel-drying each dish Castiel scrubbed, “You know, later?  Now?  Should I talk to her again today?”

                  “Give it time,” Castiel advised, “Give it time.”

                  “Time heals all wounds?”

                  “Not really, but it allows them to breathe a bit.” 

                  Claire smiled, hands stilling on the plate she had been half-heartedly drying, “I saw something today, or maybe someone, you know? Someone she used to be. I think I might have liked that person.”

                  “People change.  We wouldn’t be human if we stayed the same.” 

                  Claire chewed her lip, “Hey, um, you,” she tripped over what to call him, “Sometimes I can’t quite remember which of my memories from when I was really little were of you and which ones were of Jimmy, my real… well, you know.”

                  Castiel stilled and looked up at her, crystal blue eyes clear and curious.

                  “I mean,” she soldiered on, almost regretting bringing this up at all, “I remember always being able to tell the difference between you two, I was the only one who could, I remember that.  And there are some things that _have_ to have been you, not… you know. But others, I’m not always sure. And that scares me. I’m sorry.”

                  Castiel sighed, “I am not sure you would have liked who I was then if you met him now.” 

                  Claire grimaced at this non sequitor, “Don’t say stuff like that.”

                  Castiel gave her a sad little smile, “I am truly sorry you do not have enough distinct memories of your real father, Claire.  He was a very good man.  We did not always agree, identical faces do not mean identical paths,” a small spasm of phantom pain twitched across Castiel’s face and his scarred right arm shook ever so slightly, “But I do not think he would mind sharing your memories with me. I certainly do not mind sharing them with him.” 

                  “Thanks,” Claire whispered hoarsely, fingers tight around the plate.

                  Castiel, seeing the tears welling in the corners of her eyes, shut off the sink and slid the plate out of her grip.  Setting it aside on the countertop, he helped her down from her perch and let her lean her head against his chest while he held her.  Neither of them shed a tear, or so they would always claim.

                  Any wet spots on Castiel’s shirt or stray droplets on his face were obviously from dish-washing. 

                  They spent the rest of the night holed up on their hideous couch in their cluttered living room, reading books and watching TV at the same time because mono-tasking is for the weak. 

…

                  “You knew.” Gabriel did not say the words like a question and he shut the door to Sam’s apartment behind him with the same sort of finality.

                  “Yeah, I did,” Sam rubbed the back of his neck ruefully but met Gabe’s eyes steadily.  He didn’t bother to ask how Gabe had gotten into the apartment; he knew the little bastard had copies of every door in the building’s keys.

                  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

                  “Well, that might have to do with the fact I’d figured it out the day everything went to hell.” 

                  Gabe sighed, leaning against the kitchen counter “In a fucking handbasket.”

                  “What?” Sam rose from his seat at the table and walked over to the fridge.

                  “You know, hell, handbaskets, going-to-hell-in-a…”

                  Sam had an eyebrow raised, foot propping open the fridge, hands occupied holding two beers.

                  Gabriel threw his hands in the air, “Winchesters! Why do I even try?”

                  Sam chuckled and handed one of the bottles to Gabe, taking the other back to his seat at the kitchen table. 

                  Gabe sobered quickly, ironic considering his new beverage. “This is all kinds of fucked up, Sam.”  The fact that he didn’t bother with a nickname spoke volumes. 

                  “Yeah,” Sam ran a hand through his hair, “Amelia complicates things. And your cousin doesn’t exactly come out of this looking all that great either.”

                  “Ugh, I know how it looks, but I promise he did the right thing at the time. Fuck, he’s still doing the right thing as far as I’m concerned.” 

                  Sam sighed, “What _happened_ to them, Gabe?”

                  “It’s complicated, Jolly Green.” 

                  “Gabriel, the way I see it my neighbor’s been lying about his identity for almost a decade, which is some kind of fraud, I’m _sure,_ has been raising a kid that is not his to raise, and has been keeping her away from her mother, who, admittedly, is an unfit parent. Frankly, I’m honestly concerned about the sanity of the people involved here because either he’s committing some sort of crime or is dangerously delusional.  Oh, and I think he may have broken my brother’s heart in the process.”

                  “Really?”

                  “That’s what you focus on here, Gabe?!” Sam roared.

                  “Okay, okay, but bear in mind this isn’t completely my story to tell. I’m just gonna give you the basics and you figure out how you feel about it.” 

                  “Fair enough.”

                  “Once upon a time there was a great and noble family known as Novak…”

                  “Cut the crap, Gabe or I’m taking away your beer.”

                  “Nooo! Not my chocolate beer!”

                  “I’m regretting finding that microbrew for you more and more every day. Now tell the story like a normal person.”

                  Gabe stuck his tongue out at him, “You’re so boring sometimes, Sam.”

                  “Just get to the point.”

                  “Fine, the Novak family seemed pretty simple when I was a kid. There was the rich dad, the artsy mom, pain-in-the-ass number one, Rafael (who is totally adopted, but no one is willing to say anything about it, even now), pain-in-the-ass number two, Zachariah (I swear to god, him going prematurely gray is divine retribution for his general dickishness), and pain-in-the-ass squared, James and Castiel. Oh and Lucifer. The devil brother. He was the oldest, I didn’t know him well enough to decide if he was a pain in the ass or not.

                  “Some family shit happened in the middle, it’s pretty complicated, but let’s just say that Jimmy and Castiel couldn’t wait to get the hell outta dodge when they turned eighteen.  They went to school in the city, got degrees. Castiel made a killing making beautiful art, writing wacky crime thrillers and slowly drinking himself to death. On the other hand, Jimmy knocked up his first serious girlfriend and then married her, so neither one of the twins was exactly making great life choices at twenty.  By twenty-five a bunch of shit had happened, most of it bad, and the coup de grace was a house fire that killed one of the twins.  Amelia was too fragile mentally and medically to identify a body and Claire was too young.  The clowns at the hospital guessed; they flat-out _guessed_ and assumed Castiel died and Jimmy lived.  But they got it wrong and Castiel woke up in another man’s life with a ‘wife’ who didn’t want anything to do with the family anymore and a ‘daughter’ who needed him.  So he came here. End of story.”

                  Sam sighed, “Wow.”

                  “Yeah.”

…

                  “So your mom’s back?” Krissy raised her eyebrows, peering at Claire over her sandwich, the cafeteria’s muted roar rolling in the background.

                  Claire sighed, “Apparently.” 

                  “Is that a good thing?” Ben asked tentatively.

                  Claire sighed again, “We shall see.” 

…

                  “Amelia, leave my place of business or I will file a restraining order.”

                  “Under what name?”

                  “I will speak to you somewhere else or not at all.  Please decide your next action quickly, time is ticking.”

…

                  Claire wondered if Dean would let her hang out in his classroom after school, she didn’t really want to come back to the bookstore and its aura of lingering tension.  But when she approached his classroom at 3:00 the lights were dark behind his windows and there was no Dean to be found. 

                  Sighing, she felt like she had been doing far too much of that lately, she texted Krissy and Ben to see where they were. 

…

                  Castiel left Charlie in charge of the shop at 3:00 with no explanation and plenty of questions.  By 3:15 he was sliding into a booth at Benny’s Cajun Bar and Grille.  He could feel Amelia’s eyes on him through her menu.

                  “What do you really want, Amelia?” 

                  She gave a noncommittal hum and turned a page like the specials were the most fascinating thing she had ever laid eyes on. 

                  They sat in silence for a solid five minutes while Amelia continued to peruse the offerings and Castiel tried (unsuccessfully) to light that damn menu on fire with his brain. 

                  When Jo, college student and waitress extraordinaire, popped up asking for their drink orders Castiel bit back an impulsive “thank god”.

                  “Hi, J, haven’t seen you and Claire around for a while. How’re things?” Jo grinned at him like nothing was wrong and the past week hadn’t been spent in hell. It was jarring and sweet and dammit, Castiel needed to get his shit together and _fast._

                  “Hello, Jo, things have been rather… mauve recently.  Too much for my personal comfort.”

                  “I know what you mean, it’s been kinda cyan around here lately,” Jo grinned crookedly at him as she refilled their water glasses.

                  Castiel smiled proudly, “You’re doing better.”

                  Jo laughed, “I try.  Hey, can you give me some advice?  I’m working on this watercolor thing for one of my classes and it doesn’t look right _at all_.” 

                  Castiel nodded magnanimously, “Bring it by the shop tomorrow.”

                  “Oh, god, thank you!  I’ve been trying to get an appointment with my professor for weeks and the asshole keeps changing his damn office hours.”

                  “It’s not a problem.  Just remember I’m not an expert.”

                  Amelia snorted behind her menu.  Castiel kicked her.  And he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt. 

                  “Anyway, drinks?” Jo asked, flicking blonde hair out of her face.

                  “Nothing for either of us,” Castiel said smoothly, cutting Amelia off.

                  “Okay, I’ll come back in a sec and get your food orders.”

                  “Thank you, Jo.”

                  “No problem, J.”

                  There was another moment of silence. 

                  “J?”

                  “Yes, Dean started it.  It’s a nickname.”

                  “Hmm.”

                  Castiel could feel Amelia’s judgment seeping over the table towards him.

                  “Only assholes make their date’s drink order for them.”

                  “Good thing this isn’t a date,” Castiel was trying very hard for serenity here.

                  Amelia raised her eyebrows, “Good thing.” 

                  More silence and then, with a dramatic menu-slam, “I will drink if I damn well please!”

                  “Not if you’re meeting up with Claire later today,” Castiel wasn’t moving on this.

                  Amelia made a noise halfway between a sigh and a snarl. Her fingernails picked at the edges of the menu she had thrown down.  They were hot pink now.  Castiel wondered if she still had his blood under her manicure.  He resisted the urge to scratch at the giant Band Aid on his face.

                  Jo came back, they made their orders, Castiel exchanged small talk with her he probably wouldn’t remember.  Everything seemed to be sliding past without really touching him right now. His whole body was tight, waiting for something. There had to be something more to this meeting with Amelia. There had to be.

                  Castiel was grateful that Jo hadn’t mentioned his companion or commented on the bandage on his face.  She was kind like that.

                  Jo left and came back a few silent minutes later with their food. Amelia picked at hers and Castiel tried to convince himself that eating is what people _do_ so his appetite couldn’t possibly have completely died over night. The urge to order a glass of honey liquor buzzed beneath his skin for the first time in a decade.

                  “What do you want, Amelia?  Why are you here?”  Castiel finally asked, abandoning his jambalaya for the moment.

                  Amelia huffed, toying with her food.  She glanced up for a moment, then back down at her plate, then up again. There were tears in her eyes and Castiel didn’t think it was from the blackened chicken. 

                  “You look so much like him.”

                  “Identical twins.” 

                  “I know, but seeing you… it’s like seeing a fucking ghost.”

                  “How do you think I feel?” 

                  “You’re jus so damn-”

                  A surge of emotion crawled up from his heart and lodged in his throat, “No, shut up for a minute, Amelia and let me talk for once, just this fucking once let me speak!” Castiel snarled, sharp, quiet and intense, “How do you think I feel?  That every day I crawl out of bed and see this face in the mirror,” he unbuttoned his right sleeve, rolling it up, showing her the twisted skin beneath, “These scars. I carried Claire and you out of that house, do you remember that?  Did they tell you that?  No. I bet they didn’t. Jimmy was last. I left my twin to die. It doesn’t matter that it was for five minutes, ten, fifteen tops.  I left him to die for that short scrap of time and he did.  And I have to live with seeing his ghost in the mirror every morning and his name on the lips of everyone around me.  All day.  Every day. Until I die.  That is my punishment and I will bear it. But I do not need you to come here to saddle me with your side of this coin.  I don’t need secondhand tragedy, Amelia, I don’t.” 

                  She sat, still, white and silent.  Her lips a red slash in her face, her eyes blue smudges above rouged cheeks. And then she said the one thing he had never considered, the one thing he hadn’t counted on. 

                  “I’m dying, Castiel.  I’m sorry. I just… I thought you should know.”

…

                  Sam found Dean nursing a beer, sitting on the hood of the Impala. His older brother had driven a bit out of town, out to the bluffs and buttes, parked on the side of the road, looking down at Orcastle.  It was chilly here, the wind nipping at their skin and freezing over their faces. Sam parked his Prius (how Dean had mocked that car) next to their father’s legacy and got out, walking over to Dean, gravel and frost crunching beneath his boots.  This February was a cold one, in more ways than one.

                  “Hey, Dean.”

                  “Sam.”

                  “Got any more where that came from?” Sam said, indicating Dean’s beer.

                  His older brother wordlessly handed him a bottle.

                  They sat together on the Impala’s hood, watching the sun die a slow winter death in the distance. 

                  “Did you know about… all that shit?” Dean made a vague gesture in the direction of the town.

                  “I figured some of it out after Amelia’s messages.  There was a lot of Google involved.” 

                  Dean nodded philosophically, took a final swig of his beer and viciously chucked his bottle over the edge of the cliff. 

                  Sam wisely chose not to comment. 

…

                  “You’re _dying_?” Castiel’s words were measured, his breaths controlled as his brain struggled to encompass this new addition to the soap opera that was his life.

                  Amelia nodded, lips twisted and thin, “I’m dying.  Treatment could give me a year, maybe two. The way things are, I have six months.”

                  “And you want to reconcile with Claire.”

                  “And I’m doing a shit job of it so far.”

                  “Yes.”

                  She took them both by surprise by laughing, a raw, ragged sound torn out of her throat, “I want to try, I don’t know how to do it, but I want to try.”

                  “We have a lot to work out,” Castiel told her.

                  “I still hate you, for one thing.”

                  “I think I still hate you too.” 

                  “Lots of fucking work to do.” 

                  Castiel steepled his fingers and leaned his forehead against them, “So all that talk about legality and custody, all those threats…”

                  “I don’t know,” Amelia waved it all away with a shaking hand, tiny tremors rocking her fingers, “I’m afraid, I’m fucking terrified and I want my daughter and I want my husband and I can only have one of those things so… so be it.”

                  “Lots of fucking work to do,” Castiel parroted her words.

…

                  Later that night, after Claire called to tell him she was staying over at Krissy’s house and Gabe had closed the bakery for the day; Castiel leaned against Trick or Treat’s counter. 

                  “Do you think Amelia’s lying?  Cuz she definitely is the lying bitch type,” Gabe said skeptically as he wiped down tables. 

                  “No, she had doctor’s reports.  I saw the evidence.  I think she was worried I wouldn’t believe her.”

                  “Well, come on, it’s _her_ ,” Gabe pointed out, grabbing a cupcake from behind the counter and shoving it into Castiel’s hand, “Eat that, I don’t want to sell day-olds tomorrow.”

                  That was an outrageous lie, but Castiel ate it anyway, “She’s scared, Gabe. She’s so scared.”

                  “Of course she is, we’re all afraid of losing shit.  She doesn’t want to lose her life or her daughter or whatever evil bitches don’t want to lose,”

                  Castiel didn’t bother dissuading Gabe from his anti-Amelia jargon.

                  Gabe had continued speaking, “And you don’t want to lose everything all over again.  I mean, seriously man, have you ever kept anything you loved long-term?” 

                  Gabe didn’t mean it meanly; Castiel could see the sympathetic light in the other man’s eyes, the concern behind the caustic words.

                  Castiel sighed and sagged against the counter, “You’re right, of course. My father left, Lucifer is gone, Rafael sends me passive-aggressive gifts every birthday and Christmas, Zachariah is an ass-butt, my mother is damaged beyond repair, my twin is dead, the last serious relationship I had was eight years ago and went down in flames, and… and I don’t think Dean is going to forgive me for this.”

                  Gabe groaned, “God, don’t _do_ that. Don’t list all the ways your life sucks, it’s depressing as hell, man, and it makes me feel like an asshole for mentioning it.  And I was wrong (and an asshole) and you don’t lose everyone.  You’ve still got me, you’ve still got my psycho ‘rents, you’ve got Claire; you’re not going to be alone.  We won’t let you.”

                  “Thank you, Gabriel.” 

                  “And Zachariah is an ass-butt.”

                  “Rafael is worse.”

                  “No, he’s not.”

                  “He sends me Christmas cards full of pictures of his perfect family and gives me gift cards to Barnes and Noble and coupons for free e-books for every holiday.”

                  “Okay, that’s just rude.” 

                  “I like to think he doesn’t realize that I own a bookstore despite the numerous Christmas letters I have sent him mentioning it.”

                  Gabe laughed, “Raf is a special, incredibly normal, obnoxiously successful, snowflake.”

                  “Go figure, the adopted one is the one with the beautiful wife, the picket fence and the three charming children.”

                  “Shh, I don’t think anyone ever told him about the _adopted_ thing,” Gabriel stage-whispered.

                  Castiel chuckled lightly, “My parents suffered from some sort of bizarre delusion that he would be massively uncomfortable with the concept and wouldn’t feel like one of us,” Castiel shrugged, “And now he’s chosen not to be, it’s ironic, really.” 

                  Gabe shrugged, “I’m surprised you’re jealous of Raf, though. It’s not like you’ve ever wanted the beautiful wife, the picket fence and the charming children thing.”

                  Castiel sighed, “Not really, no.  I never wanted to marry.  Neither did Meg; it was one of the reasons we worked so well together.  We wanted the same things.  We were starving artists together, a pair of tragic pasts and hatred for the world and… I think we loved each other anyway.”

                  Gabe snorted, “A color-blind lounge singer and a tone-deaf artist, talk about irony.”

                  Castiel tipped his head to the side, considering, “I just didn’t want to be like my parents.  And Jimmy wanted to be better than our parents.  Claire, Claire was an accident.  She fell into Jimmy and Amelia’s laps and then she fell into mine and I think she’s probably one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

                  “One of?” Gabe prompted with a sly grin.

                  Castiel raised his eyebrows, “What do you want me to say, Gabe? That Dean Winchester is the other best thing that ever happened to me?” 

                  Gabe’s smirk widened, “I just want the truth.”

                  “You want the truth?”

                  “I think I’m entitled to it.”

                  “I don’t give a damn what you think you’re entitled to.”

                  Gabe cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t think your impressive ability to banter with quotes from _A Few Good Men_ will save you from this awkward conversation.” 

                  Castiel tipped his head to the side and back, staring at the ceiling, “Dean Winchester is a beautiful human being.  I am glad to have known him.  I could spend the rest of my life puzzling out all the colors in him.  But I can’t.”

                  “Can’t or won’t?”

                  “Romance isn’t for grown-ups, Gabe,” Castiel chastised him gently, “Romance is for movies and teen novels and significantly more fictional figures than I.”

                  “Yeah, but El, there’s a difference between romance and love. And I’m pretty sure that you’re not incapable of love.  If you were, the last decade would have played out very differently.” 

                  Castiel huffed, a small, dissatisfied sound, “Gabriel, did you know the Ancient Greeks had at least four different words for love, each describing a different type of attachment?  Familial, platonic, romantic, etcetera.  In America the phrase is tossed about casually, as if it were nothing special, cheap like dime-store candy.” 

                  “Hey, don’t knock dime-store candy.”

                  Castiel stared at Gabe and his cousin laughed a tiny bit and shook his head.

                  “Talk to Dean, tell him the truth, minus the glorious movie quotes, and you might be surprised.” 

                  Castiel looked away, out the door, through the street.  Softly he quoted, “You can’t handle the truth.”

…

                  The asshole pounding on his door five minutes past midnight did not wake Dean Winchester up.  No, he was already awake; his laptop perched on his lap, brain humming with too many thoughts, fluttering around and crashing into each other, slapping the sides of his skull. Grumbling, mood fouled by the cacophony of ideas whirling behind his eyes and his fingers’ apparent inability to translate any of it into anything remotely coherent.  The blank word document glowing in his exhausted face was testament to that failure. 

                  Dean wasn’t really good with words.  He wasn’t.  But sometimes, if he could make them behave for two seconds, they could be good with him.   At least when you were writing you didn’t have to care what someone else thought about it. It was just… there.

                  Dean kind of understood why his dad had kept a journal.

                  But right now the words just weren’t there and the asshole outside (who apparently had it in for his door knocker) was still beating on his door. Setting his laptop aside and flinging himself to his feet with an irritated huff, Dean tromped over to the door. Considering the fact that no one could get into this floor of the building without a key, the asshole was probably one of his neighbors and he _really_ didn’t want to talk to _any_ of them right now.  He flung the door open with a curse and just barely resisted the urge to slam it shut when he saw who was on the other side. 

                  “Hello, Dean.”

                  Novak was really lucky Dean was fifteen years too mature to slam a door in his face.

…

                  Castiel had prepared for this, plotted out exactly what to say, even. There was a mental script, no deviations permitted.  But it still took him until midnight to get the courage up to actually stand outside Dean’s door. And now that he was here he wasn’t entirely sure his feet would allow him to move from this exact spot. Tension had locked his muscles and glued him to the floor so here he would stay until Dean… flung open the door… exactly like he just did.

                  Well, shit. 

                  “Hello, Dean,” Castiel didn’t give him the opportunity to sneak any words in. He was here on a mission and now that was here he couldn’t leave.  “I have a story to tell you.  Please come with me.”

                  Dean narrowed his eyes.  Castiel could see his grip on the door tighten as if he were resisting the urge to close it. “Why should I go anywhere with you, man?”

                  Castiel’s lips thinned into a grimace as the words hit, “Because you want to know the whole truth and I’m the only one who can give it to you.”

                  Dean blinked, surprised Castiel was still this perceptive; that this hadn’t changed while everything else seemed to have.  He gave his head a small, rueful shake, looking down at the floor and then back up, right into Castiel’s eyes.  The other man held his gaze, but it was harder than it had any right to be. Finally Dean sighed, running a hand down his face, seeming to resign himself to something.  “Goddammit, Novak.  Fine, give me two seconds.” 

                  Castiel waited patiently out in the hallway, despite the fact that the door had swung all the way open the moment Dean released it.  He was fairly certain his presence was not welcome in Dean’s home anymore.  The thought made the hollow places in his chest ache a little bit more.  He watched as Dean shoved his feet into boots, his arms into his jacket and his holster onto his belt. 

                  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Castiel told him, voice resigned.

                  Dean snorted an eyebrow, “Yeah, said every kidnapper ever.”

                  “Fair point,” Castiel conceded.

                  “So,” Dean had reappeared in the doorway, armed and dangerous, “Where are we going and how are we getting there, Mr. No-Car?”  The words might have been playful teasing seventy-two hours ago. Now they came with a hard edge that dug in somewhere below Castiel’s sternum.

                  The artist sighed, “We are taking the bus,” he turned away, assuming (hoping) that Dean would follow him.

                  And against all odds, Dean did.

…

                  “You brought me to a museum?” 

                  They were in the next town over.  They had sat on the bus in silence and trekked the three blocks to the museum in much the same way, with only the occasional grumble from Dean. Castiel nodded in response to his companion’s comment. 

                  “The museum has an observatory, they’re doing an all-night star gazing event. We’ll be able to slip in easily, follow me.”  Castiel turned away, Dean’s familiar tread behind him as they passed through the doors and into the expansive marble lobby. 

                  It wasn’t the same museum, it wasn’t.  Dean reminded himself of this fact over and over again as they passed through gallery after gallery.  But he still couldn’t help but look for the cafeteria, wondering if there was a salad bar. Memories from their last museum trip crowded his mind and it would take more than a few headshakes to dislodge them.

                  He almost didn’t notice when they came to a stop, nearly crashing into Novak’s back (he still wasn’t sure what to call him, names and nicknames and terms of endearment all tangled up in his brain and left him with too big of a mess to sort out).  He stopped just in time to avoid face-planting into a trench coat but too late to dodge the scent of paint thinner and pastels and printed pages that clung to the other man’s skin.

                  “We’re here.” 

                  Dean looked up to the sign above the gallery.  _Guest Exhibit: The Art of Castiel_. “This is the exhibit we took the class to last time.”

                  Novak nodded, “Yes, my brother Rafael has control of most of my remaining work. The exhibit travels a lot. He has no taste for my… _peculiar_ style.”

                  Dean’s eyebrows crept up his forehead almost involuntarily, “Really? You never mentioned him.”

                  Novak snorted softly, but not disdainfully, “Rafael is the most conventional of all of us.  And the most wealthy. He had very little patience for me when we were children.”

                  “So why’d he get your stuff?” they were slipping back into old patterns, Dean not even noticing the transition as the conversation evolved into last week’s easy back and forth.

                  A shrug, “I was dead.  “I” was unavailable.  My parents were hardly capable, Zachariah wanted nothing to do with any of it, Lucifer was incarcerated and Rafael always felt the call of duty the strongest. He felt like he owed it to me to protect what I loved, even if he didn’t understand it.”

                  “Sounds like a decent brother.”

                  “Oh, he’s an insensitive ass-butt who’s very disappointed with the way ‘Jimmy’ fell apart after my ‘death’.  But he has his moments,” Novak gave him a sliver of a smile as he peered at him out of the corners of his eyes. 

                  Dean couldn’t help it, he laughed.  “Ass-butt?”

                  Novak’s eyes rolled back forward but his smile spread across his face, “A childhood joke.  My education in the area of profanity was patchy.  And very strange.”

                  Dean laughed, a little too loudly.  He cut himself off quickly, glancing around, not wanting draw the wrath of an irate museum worker. 

                  And then Novak was looking at him, a pale, sharp-cheeked face overwhelmed by enormous blue eyes.  Dean couldn’t describe what it was like to be the sole focus of those eyes, not if he had an infinity of words and a thousand years to write them all.

                  “Can I show you?”

                  “Show me what?”

                  “My story.”

                  “Okay.”

                  The awkwardness and the anger still hung between them, festering. But it had dulled from a boil to a simmer and Dean hoped that maybe he was wrong and there was something more here than lies and secrets. 

…

                  Castiel wasn’t sure what he was thinking when he took Dean’s hand and led him into the gallery, like they were both children on their own for the first time and their mommies had told them not to get separated.  But there was a story to tell and it was burning on his tongue and ghosting across his retinas.  Ready for the telling.

…

                  It was decidedly surreal, drifting through this still, empty swathe of museum, trailing in Novak’s wake.  Dean let his eyes roll over the scenery, investigating each painting, trying to spot hints of what had been in the folds of color and darkness. They had apparently been on a mission because Novak didn’t slow down; he just stopped, dead in his tracks in front of one of the pieces.

                  It was a massive painting, the size of a wall, of an old-fashioned film reel, unwound and put on display for the wandering eye. Each frame blown up, the details clear to see.  The first was a standard family portrait. 

                  “My father,” a stately man with distant blue eyes and sandy reddish brown hair.

                  “My mother,” Angela, hair combed, makeup perfection itself.

                  “Lucifer,” a younger clone of their father.

                  “Rafael,” a black boy with bright, intelligent eyes. 

                  “Zachariah,” a pudgy child with limp hair and tight, squished-in features.

                  “Jimmy and me,” two boys with the same face but different eyes. Dean automatically knew which one stood beside him now.  He wondered if Novak did.  He hadn’t missed the way the other man had lumped the two names together, as if they were one entity. Maybe they had been at that age.

                  The next frame was the same picture with slight alterations. The father was gone, his place empty. Lucifer wore his suit. It was too big for him. Angela had covered her mouth with one manicured hand.  Rafael and Zachariah turned toward Lucifer, as if for guidance.  Jimmy and his twin looked at each other. 

                  Dean and his guide moved onto the third frame.  Again, the same picture.  Lucifer’s too-big suit was on fire now.  Their mother had a hand over her eyes as well as one over her mouth.  Rafael and Zachariah had turned away from each other, each boy’s gaze fixed on something outside the frame.  Jimmy and his twin were back to back, as if watching for attack. 

                  The final frame showed Lucifer engulfed in flames, their mother with her eyes squeezed shut and her hands over her ears, Rafael was half way out of the frame, Zachariah had his back to the camera and Jimmy and his twin were both wearing suits just like their father’s, Jimmy’s pressed and perfect, Castiel’s tie on backwards and his shirt rumpled. 

                  Novak looked up at Dean when they reached the end of the mural, the image of the film trailing off into a final black frame before ending. Dean tore his eyes away from the intricate deal and searing color. 

                  “Tell me more.”

                  Novak smiled grimly and lead him deeper into the gallery.

…

                  Castiel wasn’t sure how he felt about standing here in the graveyard of who he used to be.  His work didn’t really look like this anymore.  He was a different man now.  But he could feel the power here.  This was his temple; these were his sacrifices.  Every piece of swirling, explosive color, of stark, alarming black and white was his flesh and blood and everything. 

                  But all the same, he didn’t have much to say about each piece, preferring for Dean to see them for himself.  He liked watching Dean take it all in, every line and mark. Bright green eyes assessed and evaluated every angle and somehow Castiel found the terrifying thoroughness comforting. Nothing had been spared Dean’s scrutiny. No comments or reactions would be half-backed or half-assed.  Even if the night ended in rejection of everything Castiel was it would be as fair as it was final. 

                  Castiel had never enjoyed uncertainty. 

…

                  Dean’s favorites were the images of people.  Castiel’s brush left nothing to chance, left nothing behind. Every image was half assessment, half hymn.  Every brushstroke weighted with both deep reverence for the subject matter and keen understanding of its nuances.  Castiel comprehended the world.  All of it, not just the dead layer floating on the surface of the skin. 

                  They spent either hours or minutes in the gallery.  The images burned themselves into Dean’s retinas one by one. As time slid past Dean was made more and more aware of how little he allowed himself to _see_ the last time he visited this collection.  The paintings had barely registered then but now, with the artist at his side they were brought into focus and like a car crash Dean couldn’t seem to look away.  Every detail was alive and breathing before his eyes. 

                  A cityscape melting, dripping down the page and pooling into an oil slick of rainbow hues at the bottom of the frame.  The sky burns behind it in hot shades of orange and gold.

                  “I like looking at the city when no one else is,” was Novak’s only comment for that piece.

                  A woman sprawling in a red chair, all pale skin and dark hair. Her head is tossed back casually, eyes barely revealing a glint of cunning intelligence.  It is impossible to see where her red silk bathrobe begins and the armchair ends.  The rest of the background is dark; her limbs are the only solid things in the image.

                  “Meg,” Novak gave her a strange little nodding salute. 

                  A black and white image looks like a beehive from a certain distance, farther away it transforms into a giant bee, diving for the bottom of the page, closer up and it reveals the thousands of tiny bee sketches the image is constructed from.

                  “They are beautiful creatures,” Novak informed him. 

                  An abstract piece that is half painting and half three-dimensional sculpture. The background is awash with whorls of color; chunks of various broken items sticking out of it like survivors of a shipwreck.  Chess pieces, broken brushes, shattered bottles, cracked mirrors, darts, old playing cards, pages from an insect anatomy textbook, parts from a computer motherboard. Everything but the kitchen sink. When you walk far enough away from it everything coalesces into an overall image. 

                  “What do you see?” Novak asked. 

                  “Flying. Someone flying.” The more steps Dean took, the clearer the image became.  A human figure, with wings outspread. 

                  Novak smiled, “Interesting.  Different people see different things.” 

                  “Really?” the picture was so clear. 

                  Novak shrugged, “People see what they believe.  A bird.  A human. An angel.  Flying, broken.  It’s all in the mind’s eye.” 

                  “Did you mean for it to turn out like this?  Because this is freaking incredible.” Dean was shocked, almost speechless but not quite. 

                  The other man smiled ruefully and looked down, “No, actually… This was meant to be something completely different.  A commission.  But, I had a bad night.”

                  “A bad night?”  Dean wasn’t sure how exactly a bad night computed into this incredible thing.

                  “Bad things happened.  I got blackout drunk and threw things at my current project while the paint was still wet. This happened when I gave up on prying stuff out of the slab of wood I was supposed to finish painting and decided to add more stuff to it and just turn it into something else,” Novak informed him in his wry deadpan. 

                  This admission, more than anything else, this evidence that the man before him was human, and here, and just the same as he ever was, broke something in Dean.  He let out a bark of laughter that slowly expanded in his chest, transforming into something almost hysterical in its intensity.   

                  “What?” Novak, no _Castiel_ , asked, a tiny wrinkle puckering his brows, his head tilting off to the side, his whole being radiating _perplexed_.

                  Dean shook his head, “You’re really something.”

                  “Of course I am.”

                  Dean sighed, recovering from his hysterics, and turned towards his companion, “Come on, let’s find an all-night diner, I think you have a story to tell me.”

                  Castiel blinked, shock filtering across his features until he nodded, slowly, “Alright.  Let’s go.” He stepped back to let Dean lead the way and that just wouldn’t do.  Dean tossed an arm around his shoulders and tugged him into his side, back where he belonged.  “Thanks for showing me this.” 

                  “I’ve never been good with people,” Castiel admitted, “This seemed like the only way to explain… me.” 

                  Dean nodded, “You know what, that makes no sense, but kind of perfect sense at the same time.”  Because no matter what name he had worn then or what name he was using now, whoever this person was, Castiel, James, Jamie, J, didn’t change with a label. Nametags don’t mean shit when you know who someone _is._

                  “Thank you for understanding, Dean.”

                  “Yeah, yeah, you’re more than your labels, cheesy Disney channel moment, whatever.  You still owe me a story and a burger.”

                  “I never promised food,” and the dry humor was back.

                  “You dragged me out of my house in the middle of the night, I think I deserve a milkshake too.” 

                  “Whatever you say, Dean,” and that tone of voice totally meant that Castiel was going to do whatever he wanted, regardless of what Dean said or did. Dean had missed that tone.

                  He tightened his arm around Castiel’s shoulders.  He still had questions, but at least the answers were forthcoming. With a side of fries.


	20. And on the Cemetery Breeze…I heard a Song About Belief

**Chapter 19: And on the Cemetery Breeze…I heard a Song About Belief**

                  “Goodnight, Dean.”

                  His companion laughed, an easy, dry chuckle, “I think the words you’re looking for are ‘Good Morning’.”

                  They stood in the hallway, in front of their apartment doors, soft pre-dawn light filtering in through the windows at either end of the hall, painting everything in shades of blue.  Castiel didn’t really want to end this moment.  Here they were suspended in time, hanging between now and then and when. Purgatory may not be a place without fear, but it was a place without consequences.  Castiel feared that if he willingly left this moment he might break whatever tenuous understanding he and Dean had forged.

                  “Dean.” Castiel wasn’t sure why he spoke.  He almost regretted it now that Dean was looking at him, expecting something more than his own name.

                  The silence dragged on.

                  “I think now’s when you say something,” Dean prompted, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. 

                  Castiel cleared his throat, feeling the scrape of smoke-damaged vocal chords. He hadn’t always sounded like a chain smoker with laryngitis. Cést la vie.  “Thank you.”

                  “No problem, man.”

                  “Liar.”

                  Dean blinked, gently surprised.

                  “The question of whether or not to trust me was a rather significant ‘problem’,” Castiel reminded him archly, but without condemnation.

                  Dean chuckled awkwardly, “Yeah, I guess so.  I’m – “

                  “Not sorry at all,” Castiel informed him, “And a very curious shade of indigo.”

                  “I thought I was amber?” Dean asked, raising both eyebrows, a mock-serious expression decorating his face.

                  “Yes.” Castiel chose not to elaborate.  Dean was many colors.  It was one of the joys of being around him.  He could see so very many of them all at once.

                  They stood there in silent, blue, purgatory for a few more moments. Castiel could feel the end of this time bearing down on him and he resisted the urge to hide from it.

                  “Hey,” Dean said, voice surprisingly soft for once, “For what it’s worth, you are one of the best people I’ve ever met.”  He reached out one hand and rested it on Castiel’s shoulder, light at first, then tightening into a gentle squeeze. 

                  Impulsively, Castiel turned toward his friend, they were dangerously close now; not that Castiel had ever truly comprehended the concept of ‘personal space’. Still riding the high of burgers and milkshakes and art after midnight, not to mention Dean, just that steady amber presence all around him, Castiel reached one hand up and rested it lightly on Dean’s cheek, the pads of his fingers barely brushing skin. “You are fascinating. And blind, so very blind. Thank you for letting me know you.”

                  Having said everything (and perhaps a bit too much) Castiel retreated. Pulling away and sweeping through his doorway and into his sleeping apartment. 

                  Dean watched him go, eyes wide, trying to soak up everything that had just happened, finding there was just too much to take in but still trying, overflowing with it all. 

…

                  Castiel didn’t really sleep that morning.  Instead he paced the apartment, picking things up and setting them down, re-ordering his universe over and over again, organizing according to some sort of internal symphony.  He wasn’t really paying attention to what he was doing, more letting it happen as images scrolled across the movie screen behind his eyes.

                  Finally, two hours after he and Dean had parted ways, Castiel came to a halt. There was no gradual slowing down; no gentle decline in his mania; he just stopped in the middle of the living room. Something told him this project was complete and he was ready to move on. 

                  He didn’t retreat to his room, he _returned._

                  And then he was in the living room again and now there was a canvas on the floor and he was up to his elbows in paint. 

                  He worked until the morning light was canary yellow and insistent and Gabe’s fist against his door even more so. 

                  “It’s Saturday, Cassie, best day of the week!  Up and at ‘em!” 

…

                  “Dude, I hate to break it to you, but you’ve got paint all over your hands,” Charlie said, breezing into the bookstore that morning, eyeballing his stained wrists where they disappeared under his button-up shirt.

                  “It’s dry,” Castiel said blithely.

                  “I figured, seeing as you aren’t leaving splotches everywhere, but that’s not really the point.”

                  “What is the point, then?” Castiel asked, tipping his head to the side and squinting at her. 

                  She squinted right back at him, “You’re messing with me.”

                  A smile snuck onto his face of it’s own volition, “A little.”

                  She snorted but grinned good-naturedly, “I take it you’re feeling better.”

                  “I was never ill.”

                  “Liar.”

                  “Liar,” he parroted back.

                  She shoved him lightly, “You knew what I meant.  I’m glad you’re doing better.  Things work out for you?”

                  “I’m working them out.”

                  “Not one for the passive all-will-be-right-with-the-world thing?”

                  “Passivity has never played out in my favor before,” he told her dryly.

                  She shrugged, “Me neither, but it seems to work for some people.”

                  “Lucky bastards,” Castiel said, completely deadpan.

                  Charlie laughed. 

…

                  Castiel answered his phone on the third ring.  Dean had changed his ringtone, again.  He didn’t know how to change it back so he just let ‘Carry On My Wayward Son’ play while he dug around the bookshop’s counter, searching for the damn thing. 

                  “Hey, Dad?”

                  “Hello, Claire.”

                  “Did you lose your phone again?” her voice was knowing.

                  “No.”

                  “You’re a horrible liar.” 

                  “You’re fuchsia today,” he grumped playfully.

                  “Not need to be nasty,” she laughed at him.

                  “I am an eccentric and unpleasant individual, what else would I be?” He said archly.

                  She snorted, “Well, I’m still at Krissy’s, we just had breakfast. Her mom makes the best waffles.”

                  “Hmm,” Castiel mused, “I knew there was something I forgot to do today.”

                  “Did you forget to eat breakfast?”

                  “There was coffee, I just assumed I had included food at some point,” Castiel reflected. 

                  Claire sighed, “You’re going to be hopeless when I go to college, aren’t you?”

                  “I have faith in Gabriel’s determination not to let me waste away completely,” Castiel replied serenely.  He really should wander over to the bakery and get something to eat…

                  “What about _Dean_?” Claire asked, putting just the right amount of playful emphasis on the name.

                  “We snuck into a museum together last night, which may or may not be a crime in Oregon.  Then we ate burgers and milkshakes.”

                  “In the museum?”

                  “Don’t be taupe.”

                  “Ah, then that’s okay, then,” Claire declared with mock magnaminity, “So, are you guys good?”

                  “Yes. We seem to be ‘good’. For now.” 

                  “Awesome,” Castiel could hear her soft smile through the phone.

                  “So, what are your plans for the day?” he asked, genuinely curious.

                  “Oh, you know, hang out here, hang out at the bookstore; hang out at Gabe’s bakery…”

                  “You aren’t telling me something,” Castiel noted, voice slightly sharp on the last few syllables.

                  “I’m meeting my mother again, in a few hours… at Gabe’s… just us. We’ll see what happens.” He could hear her shifting uncomfortably in the background. 

                  “Very well.”

                  “Are you…okay with that?”

                  “Meet with your mother, Claire.  You both need this,” he told her gently, “My feelings are immaterial.”

                  “Thank you,” her voice was a slender whisper through the tiny speaker.

…

                  _Carry On My Wayward Son_ blared an hour later and Castiel pawed around the back room, clawing through boxes of books and display materials.  He caught it a few notes before it went to voicemail. 

                  “Castiel?” Amelia’s voice staggered through the line.

                  “Amelia?” he froze, muscles tight; waiting for a blow that would never hit his body.

                  “I need help.” 

                  “Where are you?”

…

                  He found her sitting on the side of the road; swaying to a rhythm only she could hear.  The neon lights of the bar behind her slipped through her hair, giving her a multi-hued halo. Filtered through the harsh yellow light of day it seemed washed out and used.  She was like a faded photograph of herself, barely there and worn through.

                  “Amelia?”

                  “Cassieeee” she sang, saluting him sloppily with the bottle in her hand.

                  “What are you doing?” he snapped, “You’re supposed to meet Claire in two hours.”

                  She slumped forward.  Castiel almost didn’t catch her.  But a few seconds later his fingers were tangled in her shirt and latched onto her shoulder. He crouched down, bringing them face to face.  Her blonde hair drifted around them, her eyes swallowing him whole.  He felt like he was dying with her for a moment as they sat there, gravel digging into his knees. 

                  She blinked slowly.  He tracked the veins as they twisted through the bloodshot whites of her eyes. “ _James._ ”

                  “No, Amelia.  Stop that. What are you doing here, what the _fuck_ are you doing _here_?” 

                  “James,” she tried to cuddle her head under his chin, he jerked away, holding her at arm’s length. 

                  “ _Stop now,_ ” Castiel ordered and she sagged, head lolling on her neck until her cheek rested on the shoulder not trapped under Castiel’s fingers. 

                  “I went to the hospital today,” she whispered. 

                  “Bad news?”

                  “I felt bad,” she swirled the dregs of whatever was sloshing around the bottom of that bottle and raised it in sloppy salute, “I don’t feel anything now.”

                  “Amelia.” Castiel wasn’t sure what he was going to say after that, the name was just pulled from him like marrow extracted from bone.  A test sample to check for something malignant. 

                  “It was bad, Jimmy,” there were tears in her eyes, “I’m dying. And I feel like shit and what am I going to tell Claire?  I look at her and I feel worse and better and then I look at you, or maybe Castiel, whoever you really are, and I feel…”

                  Castiel wasn’t sure what to say.  Someone else might have apologized but he didn’t feel the least bit sorry. He just felt sort of ash grey, greenish and ill and fading. 

                  She shook her head slowly, a tiny movement, really, “Like I’m falling and falling and can’t see the bottom but I know it’s there and when I hit it will kill me.  But I’m already dying, so why won’t this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach go away?”

                  She kissed him then.

                  It was violent and garish and folly red and Castiel could taste blood laced with whiskey from where she caught his lip on a tooth. It wasn’t a kiss so much as a head butt of fang-baring need.  Like a vampire mummified in Johnny Walker she grasped at him with fluttering, clawing hands and tried to yank something out of the moment that had never been there to begin with.

                  Castiel pushed her away, “Stop.  _Now,_ ” he ordered, rising to his feet like a vengeful god, “I am not James Novak, I am not your idol to play games with and I am not your memory to pay homage to.”

                  “I want…”

                  “ _I don’t care_. We’ve gone past the point of that mattering to me,” every syllable was clipped, tights and tearing, “I am not my brother and I will not play his role in your last...whatever this is.”

                  “You’ve worn his face all these years.  You’ve worn his life like a coat.  Like a _trench_ -coat.” She tugged at his coat, drifting boozily from side to side. 

                  “I did what I had to do,” the words hissed out from between Castiel’s teeth like air escaping a popped balloon.

                  “Didn’t you, though?” her eyes glittered, canny and bright with intoxication.

                  “Don’t try to force me into a role neither of us wants me to play,” he said, voice harsh but tone gentle. 

                  Her grip on his trench-coat loosened and fell away, she stared off into the middle distance, eyes a wide as the sky, filled up with the bright early-afternoon sunlight.  After several seconds of complete stillness she whispered, “I’m sorry.” 

                  Castiel sighed and let his shoulders fall into a slump, eyes fixed outward, beyond the horizon, “I am too.” 

                  “I want him so badly,” she murmured, “I see him everywhere. Your ghost follows me and he’s all tangled up inside me and the lines begin to blur…” 

                  “It’s contrary to their mathematical definition to assume that lines ‘blur’,” Castiel said, voice dry and whispery like leaves after they’ve fallen.

                  She hummed, “I want you to be him.”

                  “So does the whole damn world,” Castiel told her candidly, looking at her out of the corner of his eyes. 

                  “I know.” 

                  This time he was the one who hummed. 

                  “I need to sober up,” she said with the easy philosophical tone of someone who has tipped over the edge and into serene drunkeness.

                  “Yes,” Castiel concurred. 

                  “Help me?”

                  There was a moment where Castiel considered what would happen if he refused. But he agreed before he could mentally list all the drawbacks. 

…

                  “Claire,” Castiel was on the phone, pacing his apartment, listening to the sounds of Amelia showering, looking out for a clatter or thump in case the whiskey got the better of her and she fell. 

                  “Yeah?” she sounded surprised to hear from him.  Understandable, Castiel was hardly fond of his cell phone.

                  “Your mother is not going to be able to make it to your meeting.”

                  “Oh,” Claire’s voice was small and sad, and apt counterpoint to the drip-drip-drizzle of the shower in the next room. 

                  “She had a doctor’s appointment.”

                  “You don’t have to lie for her.”

                  “I wouldn’t lie for her if she paid me to,” Castiel huffed.

                  “Especially then,” Claire said wryly, “The thought of a paycheck would insult your delicate artistic sensibilities.”

                  “Very true.” 

                  “So is it?”

                  “What?”

                  “The line about the doctor’s appointment?  Is it ‘very true’?  You know, personally I’d just settle for moderately true or mostly true.”

                  “Lets go with ‘mostly true’, then,” Castiel said softly, “She’s fine right now. She’s back at our place. I’m her…keeper…for now.”

                  The there was a slight pause and Castiel could hear the breath that came before: “What does this mean?  The doctor’s appointment, you playing nice, her cancelling?  She’s not…?”

                  “She is many things, most of which I do not know.  Ask her any questions you wish, she will probably answer.”

                  “Okay, I can take a hint,” Claire sighed, “I’ll see you tonight?”

                  “Call me when you’re coming home.”

                  “Okay.”

                  “Be safe, have fun, light no one on fire,” Castiel reminded her.

                  She snorted, “Bye to you too.”

                  “Watch out for monsters,” he warned her gravely. 

…

                  Castiel saw Dean briefly in the hallway when he fled the apartment (and Amelia’s vomiting, he wasn’t sure if this was part of her declining health or her binge) to grab some supplies from Gabe’s (that’s what his cousin got for leaving his door unlocked).  Castiel was busy, preoccupied, too distracted, and that was really his only excuse for what happened next. 

                  Dean was walking in the opposite direction, headed for the stairs while Castiel was headed for Gabe’s apartment on the other end of the building.

                  Barely stopping, just slowing down long enough to grab a fistful of Dean’s shirt, Castiel spun the other man towards him just long enough to drag him down and into a short, sweet kiss. 

                  It was like flying a kite on a green lawn under a flawless summer sky. It was like fireworks and beer under a thousand stars.  It was like stupid Halloween costumes and pirate flags and all of the last few months rolled into one second. 

                  And then it was gone.

                  Dean has stopped and was staring at him, but Castiel was moving too quickly to acknowledge it.  Instead he kept walking and said, “I’ll apologize nicely later if that made you uncomfortable. My mouth tasted like cheap whiskey and blood and I needed something nicer to clean it out.  That’s only an innuendo if you’re feeling particularly rosso corsa today.”  And then he disappeared into Gabriel’s apartment. 

…

                  Dean stared at the space Castiel had just occupied for a good few seconds before shifting his gaze to the door Castiel had just vanished into. Intellectually he knew that he could probably just open the damn door, follow him, and demand to know what was going on.

                  Instead he went to Google ‘rosso corsa’. 

                  It turned out to be a rather nice shade of bright, flaming red.

                  Castiel, that little ironic bastard. 

…

                  Castiel cleaned the bathroom thoroughly.  Then, seeing Amelia asleep on the couch, checked to make sure she was breathing, and because he was on a roll and had already closed the bookstore early that day to deal with his sister-in-law’s problems; continued the trend and scoured the rest of the apartment.  Even the dishes in the sink.  His room stayed a chaotic disaster and Claire’s remained practically perfect in every way (because she was a magical creature who obviously took after Jimmy, not him); they were just ten times more sanitary than before.  Then, because Amelia was still asleep and Claire was still with Krissy and Gabe hadn’t barged in and Dean hadn’t appeared demanding to know what happened with the mouths and the hallway and the kissing, Castiel did three loads of laundry, quite possibly setting a new record for most consecutive hours he had ever spent doing housework.  Successful housework, that is. 

                  Having completed every single thing he could possibly have done to make the place more immaculate and himself more domestic, Castiel brought his project from this morning back out onto the hardwood floor behind the couch and got back to work.

                  He managed to make a mess in the first five minutes.

                  All was right with the world. 

…

                  “You didn’t need to follow me back to the hotel,” Amelia said, eyes narrowed.

                  Castiel shrugged, “It was a slow day.”

                  “You have paint on your face.”

                  “You’re changing the subject,” he reminded her archly. 

                  They stood on the sidewalk, the sun dying a slow death behind them, bleeding out across the horizon.  A chilly wind teased at the edges of their clothing and Amelia shivered.

                  “Thank you.”

                  “I hardly think thanking me is appropriate.”

                  “It’s all I have.”

                  “Thanks for sharing,” he said dryly. 

                  She huffed a sigh and looked down, rocking on her heels. When her eyes came back up they were glazed with tears.  “Castiel…”

                  “Don’t,” he gave a minute shake of the head and she stopped, sinking into herself, her bones sharp under her pale, sallow skin.  He could see the sickness chasing shadows across the planes of her body now that he knew where to look for it. 

                  “Can I please see Claire tomorrow?” she whispered.  Her eyes were rimmed in red.

                  “Ask her, not me.”

                  “Don’t play coy, Cassie,” she snapped, barely reigning her tongue in before slicing into him with verbal blades. 

                  “She is her own person.  I cannot dictate who she associates with.”

                  “Bullshit,” Amelia said tightly.

                  Castiel shrugged, “I won’t allow her to put herself into unnecessary danger, but you aren’t much of a threat to Claire.  My only stipulation is that you meet at Gabe’s, where she’s comfortable,” _and where the most alcoholic thing is the rum cake._

                  “Okay,” Amelia said, voice thin, “I’ll call her tomorrow.”

                  “You do that,” Castiel said; voice a resigned confirmation.

                  Amelia nodded shakily, then turned and began to totter he way back to Mary’s Bed and Breakfast. 

                  “Amelia,” Castiel called out to her, voice a low growl, “If you hurt my girl, I will find some way to hurt you.  And it will be a thousand times worse than anything you do to her.”

                  “Is that a threat?” and some of Amelia’s biting sarcasm still lingered.

                  “Only if you force my hand,” Castiel warned, “Have a viridian evening.”

                  He strode away in a swirl of trenchcoat. 

…

                  “Hi,” Claire called, dumping her stuff on the floor with a clatter.

                  “Hello, Claire,” Castiel said; not looking up from the canvas he had spread out across the floor.

                  She dropped into a crouch beside him and watched him work, head tipped slightly to the side, “You know you don’t have to paint on the floor with nothing more than your bare hands anymore?  I mean, it sounds all impressive and artsy but we have money. And easels. And brushes.” 

                  Castiel flicked blue paint in her face, “Shh, working.” 

                  She giggled and watched him for a few more minutes, “Have a good day?”

                  “Eh, far too much debauchery for my taste,” Castiel said with a mock-wry smirk.

                  “Ah, another victim of that mad bookstore-party lifestyle,” Claire grinned.

                  Castiel snorted, and muttered, “That would have been preferable.”

                  Claire opened her mouth, as if to ask for clarification, seemed to reconsider; then closed it. 

                  “Your mother wants to see you tomorrow.”

                  “She texted.”

                  “Yes.”

                  Claire shifted, uncomfortable, unsure where she stood on the rocky ground between Castiel and his sister-in-law. 

                  Castiel did what anyone would do; he changed the subject. “I kissed Dean. We’ll see what happens.”

                  Claire squealed (a horrifyingly age/generation-appropriate thing for her to do) and threw her arms around his shoulders in a sloppy hug.

                  Castiel grumped under his breath, but he leaned into her arms anyway.

…

                  Midnight came and went and Claire was asleep but Castiel wasn’t and someone was knocking on the door.  Rudely.

                  Castiel answered it because he had the distinct feeling that if he let this mad door-knocking go on, it would never end and when he eventually fell asleep he would dream of nothing but woodpeckers. 

                  So he opened the door, “Stop that now, I hate woodpeckers in the real world, I don’t want them infesting my dreams.”

                  Dean snorted, “You started it.”

                  “That was different.”

                  “How?” Dean was smiling crookedly at him, that little smile warmed him through.

                  “I was the one doing it,” Castiel grumped, too exhausted by the events of the week to come up with something clever.

                  It didn’t seem to matter seeing as Dean laughed. 

                  Dean had a nice laugh.

                  “What do you want? If you’re here for the nice apology I’ve already used up today’s supply, come back when there’s a new shipment in.”

                  “Hey,” Dean’s voice was stunningly gentle, “No apologies. After all this,” he made a vague, expansive hand gesture to encompass the past week’s disasters, “I’m a little sick of hearing different versions of ‘sorry’.” 

                  “I would be original about it,” Castiel pointed out, drifting into Dean’s space without really noticing.  Dean let him. 

                  “Yeah?” Dean was smiling again.

                  “Yeah.”

                  “Too bad.” 

                  Castiel blinked at him, not sure what he was getting at and feeling too tired to track the complexity of Dean Winchester’s thought process.

                  Dean rolled his eyes, “You’re pretty damn oblivious, Cas.” Oh, and there were his lips. 

                  In Castiel’s limited experience, second kisses were infinitely better than firsts.  There was something new and sweet but easy and confident and just perfect about a second kiss.

                  This one didn’t let him down. 

                  It was short, in the grand scheme of kissing, but _good_.  Castiel didn’t have enough goodness in his life right now, had never had enough goodness, and would probably be thirsty for goodness for the rest of his life.

                  “You’re good,” Castiel said; eyes wide, each word weighted with extra meaning he wasn’t sure Dean would quite grasp but that was alright.

                  “So are you,” he was smiling crookedly, “See you tomorrow, Cas.” And then he kissed him on the forehead, like you would a child or a pet or something else precious. Something you want to protect and keep safe.  Castiel hadn’t been safe in a long time. 

                  Dean was walking away but Castiel called after him, “Cas?”

                  He grinned, slow and easy, “Cas.”

                  Castiel nodded, slow and contemplative, “Thank you.”

                  Dean laughed wryly, “It’s just a nickname.”

                  Castiel shook his head, “Look at you, so amber.” 

                  Dean snorted, “Someday you’ll explain what the hell that means.”

                  Castiel shook his head, “I can’t; colors exist to say the things language cannot.”

                  Dean rubbed the back of his neck and grinned, “Of course they do.”

                  Castiel nodded serenely, “Goodnight, Dean.”

                  “Night, Cas.” 

                  They went their separate ways but as Castiel closed the door he smiled. _Cas._ It wasn’t just another nickname. It was forgiveness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from the song "Bitterness or Sympathy" by Ron Pope, his music is incredible and that sone is beautiful.


	21. You’ve Suffered Enough and Warred with Yourself

**Chapter 20: You’ve Suffered Enough and Warred with Yourself**

                  “How do I look?” Claire did a little pirouette in front of a bleary-eyed Castiel the next morning.

                  “Coffee.”

                  “Ick, that sounds awful.”

                  “No. Wonderful.  Need.  Now.” Castiel stared at the coffee-maker emphatically. 

                  Claire snorted and rolled her eyes, “You’re only selectively coherent in the mornings.”

                  “Coffee.”

                  “Hmm. Nope!” she grinned cheekily and skipped out of the kitchen.

                  “Claire!” Castiel protested, “Caffeinate!  Caffeinate!”   

                  “Aren’t you just the cutest little coffee-Dalek,” Gabe grinned as he swooped into the kitchen, depositing a cardboard travel cup in front of his cousin.

                  Castiel narrowed his eyes at him, “Who let you in?”

                  “Haha!” Gabe crowed, hopping up to sit on the counter, “It does speak!”

                  Castiel gave him a baleful look but snatched the coffee before Gabriel could take it back and chugged half the cup.

                  Gabriel shook his head, “If you think that’ll stop me from drinking out of it now, you are sorely mistaken, my groggy friend.” 

                  Castiel narrowed his eyes at him, “This is disgusting.”

                  Gabe snorted, “Fine then,” he went to grab it back.

                  Castiel clutched it tight to his chest; “Mine.”

                  “No one ever teach you ‘sharing is caring’, Cassandra?”

                  Castiel stood and took Gabe’s drink out of his hands before sweeping out of the room. 

                  “HEY!” Gabriel yelped, but Castiel was already out in the hall, smirking as he made his way downstairs to the bookstore. 

…

                  “Hey.”

                  Castiel did not jerk and did not slam his head on the metal shelf he had been crouching under in the back room.  He just…twitched…slightly…dammit, he liked to be the one to sneak up on people and stand around mysteriously!  
                  “Yes, Claire?” he asked, standing and trying to brush himself off and only generating a bigger and bigger dust cloud. 

                  Claire gave him a knowing look and a raised eyebrow.  He raised a testy eyebrow right back.

                  She politely swallowed a laugh and refocused, “So, I’m meeting my mother in a few minutes.” 

                  “Yes?”

                  “What should I do?”

                  Castiel sighed, a small, controlled puff of air, “Claire, you’ve already done this once, it won’t be so terrible.” 

                  “What do you know, you hate her!” Claire snapped; then seemed to realize how that must sound and tried to reel the wayward comment back in, “I’m sorry, just…”

                  “Claire, I’ve told you, my feelings here don’t matter.”

                  “Of course they matter, you kept her away from me for eight years!” her eyes were watering, either from the dust of the emotions rioting within her slight frame. 

                  Castiel eased himself down on a box of books, looking up at the child he had raised as his own, “I made some executive decisions that were for the best at the time, but now I’m no longer in control here.  You can’t hide behind me.  How you handle this is up to you.  I trust you, and I will back you so long as I feel you are safe. Believe me, the minute you or anyone else is in danger, I will be there.” 

                  She sniffled, “I’m sorry, I feel like we’ve had this conversation a million times.”

                  Castiel shrugged, “Sometimes you need to say things out loud to understand them.”

                  “I’m sorry.” 

                  He smiled gently and stood, wrapping his arms around her, one hand cupping the back of her head and smoothing her hair as she leaned into his chest, “You are my periwinkle little girl and I will be here whenever you need me. That’s all you need to know.”

                  “Thank you.”

                  He patted the top of her head, then released her, “Now go talk to your mother, Gabe will be there if you need any backup.” 

                  Claire gave him a watery nod, then squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and went out to face the world.  As the door swung shut behind her Cas rubbed at his chest, trying to chase away the hollow feeling in the center of his being that told him she was growing up.

…

                  “Claire.”

                  “Amelia.”

                  “Sweetie, you don’t need to –”

                  “Flask.”

                  “What?”

                  “Flask. I know you have one, I want Gabe to keep it behind the counter for the next hour.”

                  “Claire!”

                  “I want to have a real, sober conversation with my mother, is that too much to ask?”

                  “…Alright…”

                  “Thank you.”

…

                  The bell above the door jingled and Castiel shot the irritating thing off its hook with his rubber-band gun, not even bothering to look where he was aiming. He was too busy scrubbing down the counter, lysoling every surface, detail-dusting every key on the computer’s keyboard. 

                  “Cas?” a soft voice drew him out of his cleaning frenzy.

                  He glowered up into green eyes and a freckled face.

                  “What are you doing?” Dean asked gently.

                  “Cleaning,” was Castiel’s terse reply.

                  “Cas.”

                  “What?”

                  “You don’t clean.”

                  “Yes.”

                  “You hate cleaning.”

                  “Yes.”

                  “Cas.”

                  “What?”

                  “What are you doing?”

                  Castiel blinked and finally completely focused on Dean, “Claire’s meeting with Amelia.” 

                  Dean smiled, “Okay, so let’s go get lunch.”

                  “What?”

                  Dean raised his eyebrows, “Yeah, you and me, we’re getting lunch before you set the desk on fire with your mind.”

                  “It’s a _counter_ ,” Castiel reminded him mulishly.

                  “Yeah, whatever you say, let’s go.”

                  Castiel slunk out from behind the counter; Dean extracted the canister of Lysol wipes from Castiel’s death-grip, set them by the computer monitor and slung an arm around Castiel’s shoulders, tugging him into his side and not letting him escape.  Castiel was tense, tight with anxiety as he imagined what might be happening next door, almost actively resisting the lure of Dean’s body heat. 

                  “Cas,” Dean growled, resting his forehead on top of Castiel’s head, “Relax.”

                  Castiel huffed; then deflated, “I’m worried about her.”

                  “You let her take point on this one,” Dean reminded him, “She’s a smart kid, she’ll handle herself well, don’t worry.” 

                  “It’s my job to worry.” 

                  “Yeah? Well, it’s my job to find the perfect burger before I die, and now that’s your job too.  C’mon, Cas, let’s get something to eat.” 

                  Castiel let Dean tug him out of the bookstore, stopping to flip the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’ on the way.  They were in the Impala and pulling out of the parking lot when Dean said, casually but with a gravity that was not to be disputed under any circumstances, “You’re probably the best dad I’ve ever met, you know that, right?”

                  “Thank you, Dean,” Castiel said, watching Gabriel’s bakery as they drove away.

                  “We’ll be back, just give her an hour with her mother.”

                  “Amelia…”

                  “Is a bag of crazy cats on magic mushrooms, but Claire wants to know her and Gabe won’t let anything bad happen, so you’ve got to trust Claire’s instincts on this one.” 

                  Castiel stared at him very seriously as several lavender seconds trickled past.

                  “A _bag of crazy cats on magic mushrooms_?” Castiel repeated as solemnly as possible.

                  Dean crooked a smile and within the minute they were both laughing. Maybe a little hysterically on Castiel’s part.  But they laughed. Together. 

                  Dean’s hand found his and their fingers laced together like they had always been doing that.  And maybe somewhere, on some other plane of existence, they had. 

…

                  “Amelia…” Claire watched her, almost at a loss; overwhelmed by the sheer volume of questions she felt beating behind her eyes, in time to her trapped-animal heart. 

                  “Please call me ‘mom’, sweetie,” Amelia’s eyes were pleading, her dark circles eating up her pale face.

                  “Please don’t call me ‘sweetie’,” Claire asked, lips twisting.

                  “I used to call you…but you called me ‘mommy’ then…” Amelia stared at the table, picking at her long, artificial nails. 

                  They were red.  Claire wondered what kind.  Puce? Folly? Maroon?  Castiel would know. 

                  “Why did you leave?” the question burst out of her body like air punched out of her lungs.

                  Amelia blinked, slowly, carefully, as if the world had shifted with that question and her eyes needed a moment to readjust, “I…couldn’t.”

                  “Couldn’t?” Claire snapped, “Couldn’t what?  Come on, you’re so quick to pick at other people, but you won’t give me more than two words?” 

                  “Please don’t be angry,” Amelia said, her lips trembled and Claire wondered how much of that tremor was real.

                  “Please be honest, then,” Claire said, trying to keep her voice even but feeling it shake in her chest as all the loose, broken pieces inside her trembled.

                  Amelia sighed, then winced as if it hurt her, “After the fire, there was nothing. Nothing left.  Just me and you and Castiel and I wondered what the point of it all was. What was the point of the last five years if something that small could take it all away?  What was I doing?  What were any of us doing?  Why did we care what happened next when it had all happened before?  I couldn’t feel anything except this horrible, open pit inside me sucking everything into it and giving nothing back. It didn’t seem to matter what I did, who I was, why should it?  Everything was gone and I couldn’t _think_ beyond that, beyond this thick, scummy layer of memories and what had been and what was supposed to be. 

                  “You were supposed to have a sibling, did you know that?” Amelia asked, red-lipsticked mouth twisting and bucking, “We had so many plans. We were perfect,” she blinked watering eyes and seemed to drift a bit, more somewhere else than actually present, “I think I resented Castiel, right after the fire.  No, I think I hated him.  Because he was standing there, looking just like Jimmy and the hospital said he was Jimmy but they didn’t know shit.  And I think they said that Castiel, or Jimmy or whoever they wanted him to be, had saved us and why would he bother to do _that_? What was so worth it about being saved? Aren’t fires meant to consume? Why not consume it all, burn it all down?”

                  “What about me?” Claire asked, the jagged edges of her voice slicing into her tongue as she spoke.

                  “I was glad you were safe.  I was glad for that small thing.  But I couldn’t look at you because I couldn’t see a future for you anymore. And that terrified me. I think I was convinced that I’d ruin you.  That I’d ruined me. I don’t really know. It was all tangled up and wrong back then.” 

                  “When did you start trying to find me?” Claire asked, voice shaking.

                  “I’m not sure.  I tracked down Castiel and for a while I…didn’t.  I didn’t do anything.  I just liked knowing that you were there and imagining that maybe you had a future now. I tried to call…a year, two, later? I’m not sure.  I’d try to talk to you but Castiel wouldn’t let me. Either I was too drunk or too…whatever. He didn’t want you to hear me like that, sweetie-pie.  That number was really the only one I called regularly.  I drunk-dialed Castiel a lot. 

                  “I started to resent the way he kept you away from me. It just sort of came to me one day. I was getting ready to go to some stupid party full of stupid people I didn’t really want to know and who didn’t really want to know me and I realized that I hadn’t spoken to my daughter for years. And in that second I’m pretty sure I hated Castiel, really hated him, for the first time.” 

                  “So you tried to get in touch?”

                  “Sort of.  Castiel would disagree. I wouldn’t.  It’s all in the perspective.” 

                  Claire nodded and took a slow sip of whatever fluffy drink Gabe had deposited in front of her.  She couldn’t taste much through the whipped cream.  She supposed that was the point. 

                  They sat there for a moment, silence wrapping around them like a tight, gauzy bandage. 

                  “Do you forgive me?” Amelia asked, tentative, fiddling with the sugar packets on the table, tapping the edges of the paper parcels against the Formica surface. 

                  Claire shifted, uncomfortable.  She wondered what Castiel would do here.  Probably something unexpected, unusual and perfect.  Something with colors.  But she wasn’t Castiel.

                  She wondered what Dean would do, or Sam, or Gabe. 

                  She wondered what her father would do.

                  “Do you love me?” Amelia’s voice was whisper-frail and that wasn’t playing fair, was it?  For her to sound so fragile, when it was Claire who had been hurt in the first place.

                  Claire gnawed on her lip until, with a huff of irritation; she dropped it and tugged her gaze away from Amelia’s searching eyes.  “I don’t _know_ you.”

                  “Do you want to?”

                  A tiny sound slipped away from Claire, it might have been a whimper; it might have been a sigh.  “I want to try.”

…

                  A week later found Gabe sitting on Sam’s kitchen counter, kicking his legs aimlessly through the air, fingers tapping a strange little rhythm against the slick glass of a bottle of chocolate microbrew.  “So, previously on The Not-So-Young and the Desperate…”

                  “Haha, Gabe, I get it, it’s been a week, we’re all in one piece…”

                  “ _And_ we put those Kardashian bitches to shame!” Gabe crowed. 

                  “Rude,” Sam said dryly, tapping away on his laptop and not really bothering to pay attention to his pint-sized home invader. 

                  “Aw, does Sammy keep up with the Kardashians?”

                  “No.”

                  “Ha, I call shenanigans!  You totally do.” 

                  “I do not.”

                  “Lies.”

                  “Lie. Singular.”

                  Gabe stopped, blinked, then shook his head as if to realign some gear that had gone cockeyed in there, “Did you just grammar-sass me, young man?”

                  Sam shrugged eloquently, “I don’t know, I could be lying about it.”

                  “Hey!”

                  “I’m untrustworthy.”

                  “Hey!”

                  “Completely unreliable, I hear – “

                  Gabe grabbed a paper napkin off the counter, balled it up and chucked it at the younger Winchester’s head, “No using my words against me! They are my babies and should be treated with the respect and dignity they deserve!”

                  Sam turned away from his laptop to give Gabe an exquisitely dry _look_. 

                  “You words deserve no respect nor dignity so long as they do not possess it themselves,” Castiel remarked, breezing through the doorway.

                  “Oh, if it isn’t Cassie-Ex-Machina, riding in to put all to right,” Gabe teased.

                  Castiel ignored him and began sorting through Sam’s fridge.

                  “Oh, by all means, take my groceries,” Sam deadpanned.

                  “You took my sister-in-law, it’s the least I could do.” And maybe somewhere in Castiel-land that logic actually made sense.  Gabe would put money on the idea that Cas just said stuff like that to screw with people’s heads sometimes. 

                  “I didn’t _take_ Amelia,” Sam said, mouth curving in distaste, “I’m just her physician.  I’m helping her work through her options and communicate her problems in a healthy – “

                  “Yes, you’re her shrink, we get it,” Gabe rolled his eyes, smirking when Sam bitch-faced at him. 

                  “Sam is not a shrink, don’t cheapen his profession,” Castiel said with a _very serious_ look that could only be humorous. 

                  “ _Anyway_ , I think we can all agree that I am not Amelia’s nanny,” Sam said, “I’m her doctor, there’s a difference.”

                  “Not really, in this case.  Except most children young enough to need a nanny aren’t die-hard alcoholics,” Gabe mused.

                  Castiel held up a picture frame made of his fingers, “Exhibit A, Gabriel Shurley, the one being capable of making a tactless pun sound harmless.”

                  “Ouch, mean, Cassie,” Gabe whined. 

                  Castiel made a face and dropped the finger-frame.

                  “Castiel,” Sam stumbled over a name a bit, even after a week it was a hard thing to choke out, “There is some stuff I need to talk to you about, as far as Amelia goes.” 

                  Castiel blinked and tipped his head to the side, registering the change of tone, “This is serious,” he observed, no question in his voice.

                  “Yeah, it kind of is, and you’re her next of kin as far as I know.”

                  “Close enough,” Castiel remarked wryly.

                  Sam nodded; then heaved a gusty sigh, running his fingers through his over-grown mane of hair, “Things aren’t looking great for her. She’s terminal; she’s been terminal for a long time, too.  No treatment as far as I can see, it’s like she never bothered.  She doesn’t have long.”

                  “I already knew that,” Castiel said gently, “She told me.”

                  “I guess I’m just reminding you, she doesn’t have long. And this might be a breach of confidentiality, but she’s already told me to make sure you know everything, just in case… she hasn’t told Claire anything yet. And I don’t think she’s planning on telling her.”

                  Gabe shook his head, “Bitch.”

                  “Bitch,” Dean agreed from where he was now leaning in the doorway, apparently having followed Castiel when his fridge raid took longer than anticipated, “What’s she planning on doing?  Waiting until the last possible moment then leaving the kid all over again, no explanation, just ‘bye, sweetie, you’ll never see me again _ever_ ’? It’s a dick move.”

                  “It’s that or die slowly in front of her,” Sam said, “She doesn’t want treatment, and frankly, it’s too late in the game for it to help any.”

                  “I agree, she should tell Claire.  But it must be her, not me,” Castiel observed, “That’s something Claire needs to hear from the source.” 

                  They all nodded, not liking it one bit. 

                  “Claire’s with Amelia now?” Sam asked.

                  Castiel’s body went tight and Sam regretted asking the question.

                  “Yes. They wanted to go to dinner together. I sent them to Benny’s. He and Jo will look out for Claire. And Jo knows not to serve Amelia anything stronger than Pepsi.” 

…

                  Claire shuffled awkwardly, “Yeah, it’s been good, here in Orcastle with… you know.” 

                  “Yeah?” Amelia watched her, heart in her eyes.

                  “Yeah,” Claire smiled distantly, “We’ve done such dumb stuff, but it’s been so great.  Like before Thanksgiving we disrupted a film shoot.”

                  “That sounds like Castiel.”

                  “There were pirate flags involved,” Claire said with mock-gravity, “And a pennywhistle.”

                  Amelia laughed, air crackling in her lungs, “I wish I could have seen that.”

                  “You could have.” Claire’s tone was neutral, neither an invitation nor an accusation. 

                  Amelia sighed, “I could have.” 

                  “You still could…later…now…” Claire trailed off, not sure what exactly she was attempting to articulate.

                  Amelia blinked, mascara-clotted lashes bobbing up and down like little dark wings.  “Thank you,” she whispered, almost reverent. 

…

                  Days trickled, traipsed and tripped past.  Castiel fell asleep draped across Dean’s body on the couch nearly every night, waiting for Claire to come home from her now-daily dinners with Amelia, soothed by the hum of the tv in the background and Dean’s fingers combing through his hair.  Dean would curl his other arm around Castiel’s waist and hold him steady while Castiel buried his face as deep as he could in the crook between Dean’s shoulder and the rich brown universe of the couch.  They would breath together, filling the air with the sound and color of life itself.

…

                  Every night Amelia would say goodbye the same way, “Goodnight, sweetheart, I love you.” 

                  And every night Claire would say back “Goodnight, see you tomorrow.”

                  Sometimes Amelia would dare to catch the question hanging in the air, “Do you forgive me?”  and “Do you love me?”

                  Those nights Claire would just shake her head and repeat, like a wind-up doll, “Goodnight, see you tomorrow.” 

…

                  Claire was doing her homework one afternoon, soaking in the docile hum of the bookshop all around her when suddenly her head popped up. Castiel could see its sudden ascent clearly from where he sat behind the counter.  He caught the honeysuckle gleam of blonde hair launching itself upward, like a gopher or a meerkat. 

                  “Hey,” she tried to get his (already gotten) attention, “Is it wrong that I don’t hate her anymore?”

                  Castiel closed his eyes and tried to smother the tiny pinprick to his heart. “Don’t hate.  Please, Claire. Don’t hate.”

                  “Why not?  You do.”

                  “Claire, it’s okay to want to be like me.  But if that’s the path you choose, I want you to be a more successful me.”

                  There was a pause while they stared at each other over the angles and curves of the bookshop. 

                  “Did you just make a Scrubs reference?” Claire demanded, trying not to laugh.

                  Castiel hummed and gave her a sly smile. 

                  “You just tv-referenced my existential angst,” Claire muttered, laughter boiling up through her throat.

                  “Yes,” Castiel’s eyes were bright fragments of sky. 

                  “You just tv-referenced my existential angst…” Claire’s murmur gave way to snickers halfway through. 

                  “Excuse me?  I’d like to buy this book sometime this century,” a customer grumped in front of the counter.

                  Casteil gave the gawky teen a flat look.  “What has two thumbs and doesn’t care?”

                  Claire was hysterical with laughter now, “Don’t answer that; never answer that!”

                  “Yeah, whatever; just let me pay so I can get out of here.”

                  “You are a puce human being who obviously does not watch enough quality television,” Castiel informed him as he rang up the purchase.

                  “Whatever,” the kid muttered again as he scooped his purchase off the counter.

                  “Claire, what has two thumbs and doesn’t care?” Castiel asked after the kid left.

                  “Bob Kelso!” she shouted.

                  “And?”

                  “You!”

                  “Very good.”

…

                  “Hey, Mom?”

                  Amelia’s fork stilled, the tines shrieking against the plate.

                  “I don’t hate you.”

                  “I don’t hate you either, sweetheart.” 

…

                  “Hey, Dean?”

                  “Yeah, Cas?”

                  “You’re a really nice pillow.”

                  “Look at you, using adjectives that aren’t property of Crayola.”

                  “You’re mean.”

                  “A good second attempt, but the real challenge will be when you get to the multi-syllable adjectives.  I hear they’re a bitch.”

                  “And puce.  You’re very puce.”

                  “…”

                  “…”

                  “But I forgive your shortcomings.”

                  “Really?”

                  “You’re a good kisser.”

                  “Hey, look, more adjectives.”

                  “Shut up, atomic tangerine.” 

                  “I’m gonna assume that’s another Crayola color.”

                  “Maybe.”

…

                  Amelia sagged against the bed in her hotel room.  The streetlights outside painted the walls with bands of gray and stained the shadows indigo.  Her heart pounded and staggered in her chest, like a drunk trying to walk down a narrow hallway and just bouncing off the walls instead.

                  She imagined she could hear it ticking, like a car engine, struggling a little bit more with every wheezing beat. 

                  That was ridiculous.  She wouldn’t be able to mark off the days left like days until Christmas.

                  Christmas.

                  Ha.

                  She probably wouldn’t get another one of those.

                  The thought made her sad in a way it hadn’t before.  She found herself wishing she would see another Christmas. Another Thanksgiving. Another Halloween. Really, at this rate she wouldn’t get a last Fourth of July.  But she wanted to see Claire’s face on Christmas morning.  She wanted to cook a Thanksgiving dinner for the first time since the last time.  She wanted to know what Claire would wear for Halloween this year. 

                  She wanted her family back. 

                  She wanted Jimmy. 

                  She wanted Claire. 

                  And the kicker was this: she was still angry with Jimmy. She was so _angry_ with him for dying, for leaving them here. It wasn’t his fault, couldn’t be his fault because death always seemed to absolve and sanctify the gone.

                  Maybe she would be a good person…after. 

                  She shuddered, she always felt cold these days. 

                  It was coming, the end.  She could feel it when she struggled to get up in the morning and when she collapsed into bed at night.  She was scared. She didn’t want to leave like this, she didn’t want to leave a body to be found the next morning; she didn’t want Claire to know.  She didn’t want to leave her burdened. 

                  Amelia Novak was going to leave under her own terms.

                  And it was going to be soon.

…

                  Castiel appeared at Dean’s door, disgruntled, “I’ve been evicted from my own home.”

                  Dean laughed at his pain, the beautiful bastard, “Come in, I’m making burgers, Sammy’s sitting around doing nothing.” 

                  “You’re a jerk,” Sam called absently from the couch, where he was hunched over his laptop and a mess of patient history files. 

                  “Bitch,” Dean said easily, smacking the back of Sam’s head as he walked past.

                  Sam grumbled incoherently and dug through his pile of folders.

                  “You keep doing what you’re doing, which is nothing,” Dean teased.

                  Castiel laughed and hopped up to sit on the counter and watch Dean cook.

                  Dean casually slid an arm around his waist and rested his chin on his shoulder. Castiel leaned into his touch like a cat, getting comfortable.

                  “You should make the salad,” Dean mumbled, his breath warm on Castiel’s skin.

                  “You’re not allergic to vegetables,” Castiel murmured back.

                  “You’re not allergic to cooking,” he shot back.

                  “Lies.”

                  “Dean, don’t forget to make a salad!” Sam called absent-mindedly from the living room, not paying attention to whatever was going on in the kitchen.

                  Dean pinched Castiel, “Salad.”

                  Castiel pinched Dean’s arm, “Manners.”

                  “Salad, please,” Dean tucked his head into Cas’s shoulder and nuzzled his neck.

                  Castiel pinched him again.

                  “Hey!”

                  “Move.”

                  “No.”

                  “I need to make a salad.”

                  Dean grinned, “Thank you.”

                  Castiel snorted and rolled his eyes at him.

                  “I don’t care if you’re making out in you spare time, but I’m gonna be pissed if you guys get distracted and let the food catch on fire,” Sam grumped vaguely. 

                  Dean winked at Castiel and Cas rolled his eyes at him.

…

                  “Thanks for cooking dinner, Mom,” Claire said, watching Amelia as the woman moved through the kitchen, hands fluttering and body language tentative but gestures sure. 

                  “Thank you for letting me use your kitchen.” 

                  “Why you’d decide to cook tonight?” Claire asked, grabbing a sliver of carrot out of the pile sitting on the counter. 

                  Amelia paused for a moment, uncomfortable, before gliding back into motion, “I just haven’t cooked for you in so long…it was something I wanted to do.”

                  “Oh, well, thanks.”

                  Amelia smiled, shoulders sagging in relief, “You’re welcome.”

…

                  “Hey! I smell burgers!” Gabe barged into Dean’s apartment, indignant.

                  “Why does he have a key?” Dean growled.

                  “He has keys to the entire building, you knew this.”

                  “I don’t have to like it.”

                  Castiel threw an olive at him with a straight face.

                  “I want a burger tooooo!”  Gabriel insisted, hopping onto a barstool and spinning in circles.

                  “Fine,” Dean grumbled. 

                  Castiel considered; then threw another olive at him.

                  “You guys are weird,” Gabe concluded.

…

                  “This is delicious, Mom,” Claire gushed, taking a second helping of shepherd’s pie.

                  “Thank you,” Amelia beamed.  A smile transformed her face, bringing light to her sunken features.

                  “Seriously, this is great,” Claire grinned at her, exuding warmth, stretching it out to her mother, trying to wrap her up in second-hand health and keep her safe, but not quite reaching.

                  “I wanted to cook for you at least once before…”

                  “Before,” Claire’s spoon dipped, clacking against her plate as her wrist went slack, “Before what, Mom?”

                  Amelia went silent and pensive, staring off into a realm no one could see but her.  She had only eaten half of the food on her plate.

                  “Before what, Mom?” Claire demanded, voice climbing in volume.

                  “I’m leaving tonight, sweetie, I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer. But there’s somewhere I’ve got to be.”

                  “Where? What and where are more important than here?” Claire demanded, tears stabbing at the back of her eyes.

                  “No where, sweetheart, but I can’t get out of it.  I have to go.”

                  “Then tell me where you’re going, I’ll visit you.”

                  “You can’t.”

                  “What?!” Claire was shouting now, but shouting was better than crying and she knew she would start that as soon as Amelia wasn’t right here, in front of her, staring her down with huge sunken eyes.

                  “You have to promise me you won’t follow me where I’m going, okay? You can’t, you really, truly can’t and I’m so sorry but…I love you, please remember that, I love you forever and ever, okay? Please, please remember that.” Amelia was crying, her bloodshot eyes bright with tears and her body shaking.  She stood, trembling and walked over to where Claire sat, still and cold as stone. She kissed her forehead; her lips dry as dead leaves.  And then she walked out the door, taking her purse and her coat with her and leaving only the faintest whiff of her overwhelming perfume in her wake. 

                  Claire was shaking.  She could feel her brains rattling in her head and her breath shivering in her throat. Her mom was leaving again. Her mom was…she was sick. How had Claire not noticed it before? The way Amelia’s skin stretched over the framework of her face, the dark circles swinging above her cheekbones, the red veins cutting their way through the whites of her eyes. She was dying. She was leaving. She was…

                  She wouldn’t. 

                  Claire bolted out of the apartment, slamming into Dean’s door and pounding over and over and over again with her fists, with her whole body, begging someone to come out, to be here. 

                  The door swung open and she collapsed into Dean, clutching at his arms and burying her face in his chest.  “She’s dying and she won’t tell me, but she says she’s leaving and I can’t let her go and I think she’s going to kill herself and please, I need someone to…I need…” she was choked with heavy, ugly sobs and suddenly Castiel was there, she couldn’t see him through the tears clotting her vision but she could smell him, all paint thinner and paper.  His arms came around them, unable to disentangle her from her death-grip on Dean and instead just holding the both of them close.

                  “I’ll take care of it,” his voice rumbled through them, jarring Claire’s bones and soothing her frayed nerves, “Claire, stay here, I’ll be back.”

                  “Cas, I can go with you –” Dean offered but Castiel cut him off.

                  “No, this is our business,” Castiel said gently, “Please stay with Claire; she needs you.”

                  “Okay, Cas,” Dean agreed, sounding more resigned than anything else. A faint jingle echoed above Claire’s head, “Take the Impala.” 

                  “Thank you,” Castiel’s voice was warm with gratitude and then he was gone, off to slay at least some of the family demons. 

…

                  Amelia’s rental car was pulling out of the driveway of Mary’s bed and breakfast when Castiel caught up to her.  He followed the out-of-state license plate out of town, tracking her down the highway to a run-down motel.  He waited in a shadowy corner of the parking lot, watching the digital numbers on his watch tick over to spell 10pm.  Amelia emerged from the office, keys glittering in her hand.  She only took her purse inside with her.  Her room’s door faced the parking lot; Castiel could see dusty yellow light dancing behind the blinds. 

                  Turning off the Impala’s engine, Castiel eased out from behind the wheel, ignoring the way his leg muscles clutched and cramped from the long car ride. He hadn’t driven this much in eight years.  Now he remembered why he hated it so much.  Righting himself, Castiel made his way across the parking lot, stopping in front of Amelia’s door and throwing his fist up to knock.

                  THWACK.

                  THWACK.

                  THWACK.

                  His knuckles beat against the cheap wood in tune to the rhythm of his own ragged heartbeat. 

                  He was almost surprised when the door eased open under his furious battering. Amelia must not have locked it, setting the stage for the next morning, perhaps?  How was she going to do it?  Pills? Hanging herself? Slitting her wrists? Cold seeped into Castiel’s blood and fragments of moments from long ago threatened to overtake his vision.

                  The room was poorly lit, the faded yellow bulb in the end table’s lamp doing little more than cast more shadows.  Amelia’s purse was tossed carelessly on the bed and she wasn’t in sight. Cold curling into a heavy lump in his stomach, Castiel darted across the room, jerking open the door to the bathroom. 

                  Gray.

                  Gold.

                  Jagged light tossing reflections off of polished metal.

                  Red.

                  Red.

                  Red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from the song "Falling Slowly" from the musical 'Once'. The song is gorgeous and has some great lines.


	22. And Scars are Souvenirs You Never Lose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a brief warning, there is some discussion of attempted suicide and it's repercussions in this chapter. Nothing graphic but please read with your own care in mind.

**Chapter 21: And Scars are Souvenirs You Never Lose**

                  It wasn’t until afterwards that Castiel was able to fully piece together what exactly had happened.

                  He opened the bathroom door.

                  Amelia stood there, barefoot.  She looked like she had prepared for this moment.  Her hair was brushed.  Her clothes were nice, taseteful, her makeup simplistic, pretty rather than garish. She looked like Amelia from Before.

                  In her hands was a gun. 

                  She cradled it between her palms, holding it tenderly, like it was precious. She was raising it to her temple and her hands shook slightly. 

                  Then everything sort of shifted and blurred. 

                  She jumped in surprise.

                  The gun swung in her grip.

                  Her eyes were wide and so, so blue.  Paler that Castiel’s.  Like denim that had faded after too many washings. 

                  The gun cracked. 

                  Pain spiderwebbed through his leg and he wasn’t quite sure how it happened but he suddenly went from standing under his own power to curled up on the bathroom floor.  His fingers were clutched around the wound and he didn’t remember doing that but there they were, red-stained and locked onto his thigh.  Amelia was shouting in the background and Castiel tried to force the pain pounding in the back of his head to _shut the fuck up_ for two seconds so he could figure out what the hell she was on about.

                  He got a little bit of clarity just in time to see her crouched beside him, her thin fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder.

                  “Castiel, Castiel, focus on me, what are you doing here?  Oh no, don’t die, you can’t die, I can’t let you…”

                  “Just grazed my thigh,” Castiel ground out, crushing the words between his teeth.  He could feel the furrow the bullet had carved, could feel splintered bits of wood digging into his back from where the doorframe had cracked when the bullet thudded into it.

                  “So much blood,” Amelia whispered and she was white as a sheet, Castiel could almost imagine all this blood was coming out of her and that frightened him a surprising amount. 

                  “Call 911,” he instructed, “Call Dean,” he scrabbled at his trenchcoat pocket with the hand not holding blood in his body and handed the phone he found there over to Amelia. 

                  She dialed 911 and Castiel wondered vaguely if the motel management had done the same when they heard the gunshot. 

                  He looked at him as the phone rang, “What do I tell them?” Her eyes were huge.  She was frightened for him, Castiel realized.  Huh. Interesting.

                  “Just say there’s been an accident and a man’s been shot,” he gritted out.

                  She nodded, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

                  Castiel tuned out her conversation with the 911 operater, instead listening to his own heartbeat as it thrummed through his body, carrying blood all over, spilling it carelessly on the bathroom floor.

                  Amelia hung up, there were tears caught in her lashes and Castiel had the irrational urge to reach out and comfort her. 

                  “You wanted me to call Dean?” Amelia asked, voice hoarse and rasping.

                  Castiel considered, “No, not yet, wait until the ambulance gets here, don’t want him to worry.” 

                  “If I’ve killed you,” she choked on the words.

                  Castiel snorted, “You haven’t.  If a house fire didn’t kill me, this won’t.”

                  “You’re supposed to put pressure on the wound,” she seemed to remember, darting into the bedroom, apparently struck by inspiration. 

                  She came back with the top sheet from the bed.  She shoved it into his hands and helped him crush it into the wound, trying to stanch the bleeding. 

                  “You just grazed me,” Castiel reminded her, jaw tight as she seemingly tried to push the blood the blood back into his body through sheer force of will, “As long as you didn’t hit any major arteries, I’ll be just fine.”

                  “I’m so sorry,” Amelia whispered, not looking at him.

                  He snorted, choking on a whimper of pain, “There’s something almost farcically turquoise about all this.  A car chase, an attempted suicide, an accidental shooting.  I’m expecting melodramatic music at any moment.”

                  Amelia swallowed a laugh, most of it emerging as a cough.

                  “So, you were going to kill yourself,” Castiel said, gaze on her hard and assessing.

                  “So, you were going to stop me,” Amelia shot back.

                  “Perhaps.”

                  She sighed, “Why?”

                  He kept his eyes on her, making sure she was looking right at him, “Because Claire asked me to.”

                  A strangled sob escaped Amelia’s throat. 

                  “You scared her, Amelia.  She figured out what was wrong.  She was hysterical. You hurt my girl.”

                  Amelia flinched, “She doesn’t need me.”

                  “She _didn’t._ ”

                  “What do you mean?”

                  Castiel shook his head, “She didn’t.  But then you came back.  Once you come back you can’t just leave, you can’t be a part-time parent. That’s not how it works. Love isn’t a nine-to-five. You can’t just punch out at the end of the day.”

                  “This is the end for me, Castiel, today, tomorrow, soon. At least this way Claire doesn’t see me waste away,” Amelia’s voice was shrill and quavering. 

                  Castiel sighed, “Amelia, I know that.  But do you really want Claire to remember you choosing to leave? Or do you want Claire to remember a mother who stayed with her as long as she physically could?”

                  “I want…I want…I want her to be able to imagine that I’m somewhere, that I’m happy.  Certainty kills,” he eyes were distant and Castiel knew that she saw Jimmy when she looked at him in that moment. 

                  Castiel sighed, images from the past tugging at the edges of his vision, “Jimmy never knew…” he stopped, not sure how to talk about this, not sure he should.

                  “What?” Amelia was watching him with starving eyes, hungry for a piece of Jimmy.

                  Castiel looked away from her, staring over her shoulder, boring a hole in the wall with the force of his gaze, “Our mother wasn’t…well.  We didn’t have a normal childhood. There was no ‘happy family’ to speak of, just a bunch of people rattling around a too-big house,” he paused, trying to escape the echoes of that house, “After our father disappeared...things got worse. Our mother became erratic, manic. She was an artist. On her good days she could make the most beautiful things.  On her bad days…once she destroyed a painting she was working on because one mountain in the background wasn’t quite grey enough.  She cried over the canvas the next day.  When I was a teenager I was often alone in the afternoons. Jimmy had club activities and the others had other interests.  I was the only one home when she tried to kill herself.  She swore me to secrecy the next day.  Told me it’d be a game, like when Jimmy and I were young. But it was too late; I had told Rafael. She was put into “care” a month later. I like to pretend it isn’t my fault.”

                  There was a stillborn pause. 

                  “I’m a horrible person,” Amelia said with a weary chuckle, “I’m selfish and I dragged you and Claire down with me.” 

                  Castiel snorted, “Don’t be so melodramatic, this scenario is bad enough already.”

                  “I’m awful, the bitch-queen, the…I don’t have any adjectives for this.”

                  Castiel sighed, “I didn’t tell you that so you’d hate yourself of blame yourself. I just wanted to remind you that maternal suicides don’t make for happy or psychologically stable children. My mother checked out long before that afternoon, but at least she was always there.  She was consistent in her inconsistency.  After that day…I never knew when I’d lose her…I wondered what I’d done to make her want to get away that badly.  Because things were always my fault, see?” he shook his head, “I don’t know, I just was thinking about it and I thought you should know.”

                  “I’m sorry, Castiel.”

                  “Stop apologizing.”

                  They sat in silence and strained to hear sirens that weren’t there yet.

                  “I don’t hate you for surviving,” Amelia said suddenly, desperately, as if the words chased each other out of her mouth, “I don’t.”

                  “Thank you,” Castiel breathed, “I used to hate you too, for surviving. But really, if you hadn’t, if I had gotten to him first and it had been you they buried…he would never have been able to forgive me.  His honor and loyalty pride, really, so much pride, would have prevented it.  He wasn’t perfect, as much as we like to remember him that way. Love and family are funny things.”

                  Amelia sniffled, “I used to wish you were the one who died, that _my Jimmy_ had lived.  But you’re right, no matter who died; the survivors would hate each other. Jimmy wouldn’t have been able to forgive me.  For not loving you. He would have grieved for you and I wouldn’t have understood and we would have fallen apart.”

                  “I’m sorry,” Castiel said, “I’m not entirely sure why, but I’m sorry.”

                  “I know, I understand,” Amelia met his eyes and they understood each other.

                  Sirens squealed outside.

                  “That’s my ride,” Castiel told her gravely and Amelia coughed up a smile. Tears were sliding down her cheeks, baptizing them.

                  “You’ve done a beautiful job with Claire, she’s a miracle,” Amelia whispered.

                  “Thank you,” he said, “But most of that’s just her.  She’s a seraph.”

                  “An angel?”

                  “Angel sounded trite.”

                  “Ah.”

                  And then it was flurry of color and sound and some shouting and his leg hurt and maybe he blacked out a bit when they transported him because he didn’t remember getting from the motel room to the ambulance but it must have happened at some point because here they were.

                  “Call Dean,” he told Amelia and she nodded, tangling their blood-slicked fingers together as she fiddled with Castiel’s phone in her other hand.

                  The ride to the hospital was long and foggy and they had put an ugly orange blanket over him and there might have been painkillers involved because Castiel felt himself begin to drift off to sleep, soothed by the efficient citrine chatter of the people all around him.

…

                  Castiel woke up slowly, suspicious of the foreign noises disrupting the air. As far as he knew, his home did not feature any kind of rhythmic beeping.  His eyes opened almost of their own volition and he scanned the room before any of the people standing around could notice he was awake.

                  He was trying to stealthily remove his IV when he was caught.

                  “Dad!” and there was Claire and here were her arms around him, holding him tight, crushing all the air out of his body but he didn’t mind.

                  “Hello, Claire,” he murmured into her hair. 

                  “Dad, Dad, Dad,” she kept repeating, chanting it into his chest as she held him tighter and tighter, tears soaking through his thin hospital-issued shirt.

                  “Claire, Claire, Claire,” he echoed her, “Why are you crying? It barely grazed me, I’m fine.”

                  “You’re fine?!” Gabe squawked from across the room, “You’re an asshole is what you are!”

                  “Why hello there, Gabriel, a delight to see you too,” Castiel said dryly.

                  “Shaddup, I brought you contraband coffee,” Gabe snarked, “Apparently patients aren’t supposed to drink this stuff, whaddya know?” 

                  Castiel took the cup gratefully, chugging the whole thing in one go.

                  “Nasty, right?” Gabriel said sympathetically.

                  “Cinereous,” Castiel concurred.

                  “I’m gonna go with that being a color.”

                  “Yeah.”

                  “Wait,” Gabe made a vague ‘put the brakes on’ gesture, “I’m pissed at you! You got shot you jerk!”

                  “It was an accident.”

                  “Yeah? Well, I don’t care! Do you know how many years that little phone call from Amelia took off our lives? A WHOLE FUCKING LOT! And Dean the poor bastard is stranded in the waiting room looking like he’s gonna spontaneously combust from worry because he’s not ‘immediate family’.” Gabe rolled his eyes, the got serious all over again, “We were worried Cassie, really, really worried.”

                  “My apologies, I’ll avoid _accidental_ shootings from here on out,” Castiel said dryly. 

                  “No snark from you, mister!” Gabe declared imperiously, “You are banned from snarking until our heart rates return to normal!”

                  “Dad?” Claire murmured and Castiel glanced down at her tear-streaked face, his heart twisting and jerking painfully in his chest, “I’m so sorry.”

                  “For what?”       

                  “I’ve been feeling really weird about calling you ‘dad’ since Amelia showed up so I kind of…haven’t been calling you anything since she got here. And I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m really sorry.”

                  “Oh, Claire,” Castiel sighed, and put his arms around her. “I told you eight years ago, no matter what you call me, no matter where I am, I’ll always be here with you when you need me.”

                  “Thank you,” she whimpered into his chest. 

                  “Amelia?” Castiel asked Gabe. 

                  The shorter man’s expressions soured, “Being questioned by the police as we speak.”

                  “Tell them I’m not pressing charges.”

                  “What?!”

                  “Not pressing charges,” Castiel reiterated gently. 

                  “WHY?!”

                  “Because it was an accident and she doesn’t deserve to spend her last days locked in a legal battle I have no interest in fighting.”

                  “You are waaaay too nice,” Gabe griped, “But I’ll relay your message.”

                  “And bring me Dean,” Castiel called after him.

                  “What am I, your handmaiden?” Gabe whined from the doorway.

                  “Off with you, maidservant!” Castiel cheerily instructed him.

                  Gabe’s protests and sarcastic remarks faded as he trotted away.

                  Castiel smiled and closed his eyes, leaning back, letting Claire rest her head on his chest from where she sat in a visitor’s chair pulled up next to his bed.

…

                  “You are trouble,” Dean’s lips were right next to Castiel’s cheek and he could feel the whisper of the other man’s breath across his face.

                  “Hello Dean,” Castiel said without opening his eyes, “Here to yell at me too?”

                  “I would, but I’m too goddamn tired,” Dean grumbled.

                  “Sorry.”

                  Dean flicked his ear, “No you’re not.”

                  “Sorry-not-sorry?” Castiel offered. 

                  “Sounds like that’s as good as it’s gonna get.”

                  “For now,” Castiel yawned, eyes falling open a slit; “I’m tired too.”

                  “Okay, then just sleep, Cas.  I’ll be here. I’m always here.”

                  Castiel smiled and drifted off again, Claire’s head a pleasant weight on his chest on one side and Dean’s head resting on his pillow on the other.

…

                  Castiel stole one of the shock-blankets from the stack next to the laundry room the day he checked out of the hospital. 

                  Dean gave it a skeptical look.

                  “It’s my consolation prize for being shot,” Castiel told him breezily.

                  “It’s a fugly orange blanket.”

                  “Doesn’t everyone dream of one day having a fugly orange blanket? I did.  Until I got this one.”

                  “Cas, give the blanket back,” Dean told him, voice even in a way that said he was resisting the urge to laugh.

                  “Mmmm, no.” Castiel turned and walked away as fast as he could while still using a crutch. 

                  “Cas! What the hell.  Get back here!” Dean jog-trotted after him.

                  “I’m in shock, you can hardly hold me responsible for my actions,” Castiel told him haughtily. 

                  “You were shot two days ago,” Dean reminded him.

                  “A technicality,” Castiel said with a secret smile, leaning up to gently kiss the scowl off of Dean’s lips.  

…

                  When they were all home, everyone scattered around the Novak’s apartment, Dean and Cas sat on the couch wrapped up in Castiel’s fugly blanket, Castiel grinned at Dean.  “You like the blanket now,” he said with complete authority. 

                  Dean did the mature thing: he stuck his tongue out at the other man.

                  “Stop being stupidly cute,” Gabe heckled. 

                  Sam rolled his eyes but smiled behind whatever book he was reading.

                  Claire and Amelia exchanged a look that spoke volumes.  Castiel was happy to see them together, something he hadn’t thought he’d ever think.  Amelia looked even more fragile now, like spun glass and late at night Castiel wondered if tomorrow would be the day the cracks in her glass turned into fractures, turned into breaks. 

…

                  Amelia’s health took a turn for the worse after Castiel’s hospital stay. She moved in with Castiel and Claire, sleeping on their pullout sofa.  Some days she didn’t get up at all, just lay in her ‘bed’, propped up by a million pillows, watching bad tv with Claire or Castiel.

                  Sam suggested some painkillers but she refused most of them, saying she had spent plenty of time drunk off her ass; she needed every moment of clarity she had left. 

                  One morning Castiel ate breakfast with her, sitting in the living room with their plates and forks as if this were normal and somehow it seemed more natural than it should.

                  “I’m rather glad you shot me,” Castiel reflected, shifting so the armchair didn’t press against his bandaged thigh. 

                  “Really?” she snorted weakly.

                  “Yes. Now I have a trauma blanket and a new roommate.  Things seem to have worked out in my favor,” he smiled at her and she knew what he was trying to say.

…

                  One afternoon Dean was home alone with Amelia, Claire helping Castiel in the bookstore as he limped around with his crutch. 

                  “Dean?”

                  “Yeah, Amelia?” he looked at her, surprised to feel sadness soak through him at how faded she looked now.

                  “You’re good for him.”

                  “Thanks.”

                  “That’s good.  He deserves something good.”

                  Dean grinned, “Yeah.”

                  They sat together for a few moments longer.

                  Dean glanced at Amelia, “Do you want some lunch?”

                  “No, thank you.”

                  “Amelia, you gotta eat something.”

                  “No, I’m fine.”

                  “I’m making burgers…”

                  “Maybe a little something.”

                  She still only ate a few bites before losing interest. Dean still let her pick at it for however long she wanted.

…

                  “I’m going out today,” Amelia announced one Saturday morning when Castiel staggered out of his room to find her putting the shaky finishing touches to her makeup. 

                  “Coffee,” he grumbled, groping for the coffee-maker.

                  “I’m going to meet Claire and her friends at Gabriel’s bakery this afternoon.”

                  “Coffee,” Castiel gripped his mug, relishing the warmth, then his sleep-fuddled brain translated what Amelia actually said, “You’re going out? Ah, that makes sense. Good for you, you’ll like Claire’s friends.”

                  Amelia raised both her eyebrows, “Good to know you approve.”

                  Castiel ‘hmmed’ in response.

…

                  Amelia was thoroughly enchanted by Claire’s friends.  After a meeting that went far better and Claire could have guessed, mother and daughter stood in the street together watching Ben and Krissy make their ways home. 

                  “I like your friends, sweetheart,” Amelia told her, squeezing her weakly with the arm she had wrapped around the girl’s shoulders.

                  “I think they like you, too,” Claire grinned at her.

                  “Good,” Amelia smiled vaguely, staring off into the distance.

                  What happened next seemed almost surreal, like a rough outline of a painting that that the artist had never bothered to actually finish.

                  Two blondes stood, leaning against each other in the parking lot; watching the day fade.  It was a strange moment, almost too perfect, the kind of thing you want to capture on a postcard and sell to tourists.  And then there was the street and a car determined to burn a path down it. A turn taken to suddenly; wheels overcorrecting as they cut through a puddle. 

                  A shriek of brakes and a shriek of fear twining together into an obscene braid of sound.  And suddenly there were lights in their faces and Claire could see her face reflected in a shining metal bumper and Amelia’s arm wasn’t around her shoulder anymore and Claire was on the ground, the pavement digging into her palms and knees.

                  There wasn’t a crash.  The term ‘car crash’ is a misnomer.  Cars don’t crash when they hit things. There’s a whole symphony of sounds.  A squeal, a shriek, a bang, a crack, a groan and a scream as tortured metal gets even more abused.  And this time there was a meaty slap-thump to go with it.

                  By the time Claire looked up it was done.  The car had piled itself against a light post, a crumpled ball of tinfoil. 

                  Another crumpled form lay on the pavement. 

                  Amelia.

                  “MOM!”

…

                  Amelia didn’t make it to the hospital. She woke up a bit in the ambulance, just long enough to gently squeeze Claire’s fingers, “Love you, Claire. Sweetheart.” She paused, breath coming in faded puffs, “Castiel…Jimmy…sorry…love…” 

                  “I love you, Mom,” Claire whimpered, eyes overflowing.

                  “Amelia, it’s okay,” Castiel said, reaching out and putting a hand on her thin wrist. 

                  “Jimmy…” she breathed, “Claire, love you….”

                  She didn’t wake up again. 

…

                  Amelia’s funeral dawned like any other day.  Castiel felt that was just.  Any form of extreme weather would just seem offensive.  She deserved an ordinary day with her family.

…

                  They all took turns saying something to Amelia.  After all, they were the only people at the little funeral. It seemed only fitting that they threw in a bit of extra participation. 

…

                  “Hey, sorry I called you a mega-bitch.  Yeah, you weren’t so bad, actually.  Sorry I didn’t really know you.  I’ll make a cupcake just for you.  Lemon cake with blueberry filling. Maybe some buttercream frosting. Seems like something you’d like. I dunno.  You did good, bringing Claire into the world. You did good, Amelia.”

…

                  “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you.  I hope I helped.  You seemed…you seemed like there was more to you.  And I’m sorry we had to meet this way.” 

…

                  “You’ve got a lot to answer for, Amelia Novak.  But you did some good in the end.  So I think God’ll probably let it slide, if you believe in that stuff.  You deserve a slice of heaven after all this shit.  I wish I could have known who you really were, because all that stuff with the booze and shit, that wasn’t you.  And, just so you know, I’ll look out for Claire and Cas for you.  They’re too good for this world.  They need someone to keep both their feet on the ground for them.”

…

                  “Amelia. I hope you have peace.  You and Jimmy deserve it.” 

…

                  “Mom. I forgive you. I love you.  I wish you could have stayed with me.  Thank you for coming back.  I missed you.  I miss you now. I love you.” 

…

                  They all came back to Gabe’s apartment after the service. No one wanted to look at the foldout sofa.  Dean fetched the trauma blanket from Castiel’s place and wrapped it around Cas and himself, cocooning them in warmth.  Claire snuck in under Dean’s arm and sat sandwiched between them like a little kid curled up between their parents after a bad dream.  Sam collapsed into an armchair and Gabe fluttered around the kitchen, cooking his feelings until the kitchen counter was littered with potpies and Sam had to forcibly remove the piecrust from Gabe’s hands. 

                  They ate a silent dinner of chicken potpie in the living room and just left their dishes where they set them when they were done.  No one wanted to extract themselves from the bubble of family they had created. 

                  “I’m sorry,” Claire said, sniffling, “I miss her.”

                  “No more apologies,” Dean said gruffly. Everyone turned to stare at him, “I mean it, I’m sick of ‘I’m sorry’.  We all screw up.  We get it. But right now it’s not about apologizing, it’s about living.  We can miss Amelia, we’re allowed to.  We can still resent her, we’re allowed to. We’re allowed to feel however the hell we feel, okay?”

                  “Yes,” Castiel agreed, not elaborating further, just curling into the little nest Dean, Claire and their trauma blanket had created.

                  “I kind of miss her too,” Gabe admitted.

                  “Yeah…Sam echoed.”

                  “Cocoa brown.  She was cocoa brown towards the end,” Castiel announced. 

                  Everyone nodded, for once vaguely understanding what Cast was trying to communicate. 

                  They were a family.  A family minus one member.  But a family. They would survive. And they would remember.

                  “She left under her own terms,” Castiel murmured, “With dignity. Just like she wanted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from the song "Name" by the Goo Goo Dolls.


	23. It Shone Like Gold

**Epilogue: It Shone Like Gold**

**Two months later…**

                  “I’d like to buy this book.”

                  “Please wait.”

                  “I’d like to buy this book _now_.”

                  “Specifying a time frame does not motivate me in the slightest.”

                  “I’m going to shoplift this book if you don’t ring me up.”

                  “Worth it.”

                  “Okay.”

                  Castiel peered over the edges of the manuscript in his hands, “I am pages away from finding out whether or not the hero lives or dies because I had the misfortune of dating a writer who doesn’t tell me shit.  Now go be impatient and puce somewhere else.”

                  Dean grinned at him, setting the book he had threatened to walk out with aside, “So you like it?”

                  Castiel gave him an inscrutable look, “You aren’t going to distract me, Dean. I’m going to finish it, it’s inevitable.” 

                  “Want to bet on that?”

                  “No, I want you to go away so I can finish editing your ridiculous carmine manuscript.” 

                  Dean laughed, “I don’t see much editing.”

                  “Stealth-editing,” Cas deadpanned, “All the rage.”

                  “Really?”

                  “Really.”

                  They sat together in peace for a few minutes, Dean watching Castiel watch the pages go by.  It was almost relaxing. Domestic in a way exclusive to them. But Dean wasn’t really built for silence, “Is now a bad time to tell you that there are three alternative endings to the book?”

                  Castiel’s fingers stilled on the last page and he leveled a frosty glare in Dean’s general direction, “I hate you.” 

                  Dean shrugged, grinning, “I wrote the first draft in a fit of” he made vague hand gestures possibly depicting existential angst or maybe just some form of interpretive dance far beyond Castiel’s realm of comprehension, “- all of which was your fault, asshole.”

                  Castiel shrugged, leaning towards Dean, over the counter, “From great betrayal and terrible secrets comes great art.  I am an inspiration.”

                  “You are a sassy bastard, is what you are,” Dean grumped, meeting Castiel halfway so they were a breath apart. 

                  Castiel grinned, slow and lazy and leaned forward just enough to taste the shadow of Dean’s lips but darting away before making full contact. He then scooped up the manuscript and breezed away, past Dean, deeper into the store.

                  “Tease!” Dean yelped, following him.

                  “Three alternate endings,” Castiel reminded him. 

                  “I never should have told you about Moondor,” Dean grumbled.

                  Dean could hear Castiel smirking, despite the fact that the other man’s back was facing him, “On the contrary, I think it’s rather adorably amaranth that you write some of my favorite epic fantasy novels in your spare time. A bit troubling that you took so long to tell me, though.”

                  “What?” Dean said indignantly, “No, that is not okay; you do not get to play the name game.  My pen name is nothing like,” Dean made another vague gesture, probably in reference to Castiel’s assumption of Jimmy’s identity (an identity that he continued to use out of necessity, Claire wasn’t going anywhere so long as the powers that be assumed she was with her father).  Then again, Dean’s flailing could mean anything.  It was rather vague.

                  Castiel turned around enough for Dean to see the gentle smile on his face, “Teasing.”

                  Dean rolled his eyes and pulled Castiel close, smushing pages between them, “You are a pain in the ass.”

                  “Thank you.”

                  “Love you.”

                  “Love you too.”

                  Silence hung over them until Castiel piped up again, “And I want to read all the alternate endings.  Now.”

                  “Specifying a time frame does not motivate me in the slightest,” Dean quoted.

                  “Stop being gamboge.”

                  “That is a nasty-ass color.”

                  Castiel smiled into Dean’s chest, “You’re learning.”

…

                  “Someone’s going to kill me if you get frosting on that dress,” Gabe said mournfully, watching as Claire grabbed a cupcake off the counter.

                  “Yeah, says who?” Krissy said with a crooked grin and a mouthful of chocolate cake and purple buttercream. 

                  Gabe flailed slightly, “You’re girls, you’re supposed to be afraid of getting stains on your prom dresses!”

                  Sam snorted as he entered the shop, narrowly avoiding smacking his head on the bell above the door.  “They’re not going to prom, Gabe, don’t be mean.” 

                  “Whaaat? _Moi? Mean?_ ” Gabriel said dramatically, “I would never! And anyway, who’s it hurting?”

                  Sam raised an eyebrow, “If You-Know-Who hears one more word about Claire growing up I’m pretty sure his head will explode.”

                  “I had no idea Voldemort was so invested in my daughter’s future,” Castiel remarked dryly, breezing through the doorway, gliding past Claire and snatching the cupcake out of her hands. 

                  “Dad!” she protested.

                  “You’ll get frosting on your dress, blondie,” Dean said gruffly, moving to ruffle her hair then stopped, staring at her elaborate updo for a moment, nonplussed. Eventually he made a vague gesture instead and moved on. 

                  Krissy raised an eyebrow, “Very masculine, guys.”

                  “Don’t you start, princess,” Dean said, leveling a taunting finger in her direction. 

                  Krissy rolled her eyes but didn’t make any further fuss. She _was_ wearing a pink confection of tulle and rhinestones the like of which Orcastle had never seen before and was not likely to see ever again.

                  Claire side-eyed Krissy’s dress and smothered a giggle.

                  “Hey, this dress is not my fault!” Krissy yelped, “Mom just got waaay too excited when I told her about the dance…”

                  “And bought you a pretty, pretty princess dress?” Gabe supplied helpfully.

                  Krissy glared and mimed chucking the remainder of her cupcake at his face.

                  “Kids these days,” Sam said, shaking his head mournfully, eyes glittering with mischief. 

                  Gabe moodily snapped a dishtowel in his face.

                  Claire flopped her head over the back of her chair so she could look up at Castiel, “So how do I look, Dad?” 

                  “Beautiful, absolutely beautiful,” he said, eyes soft. 

                  “No colors for me?”

                  “If there is a color for you at this exact moment then I do not know its name yet,” Castiel told her gently. 

                  “Thanks, Dad.”

                  He touched the top her head lightly with the very tips of his fingers, like a benediction.  A blessing from the great god Castiel Novak. 

                  Headlights flared in the faded old gold evening light, slicing through the bakery’s windows. 

                  “That’s our ride,” Krissy grinned at Claire.  She turned her attention to the adults, “You girls want pictures?”

                  After a pause (and some smothered discontented grumbling at being called ‘girls’) the room as a whole chorused “yes” with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

                  Krissy’s date and Ben appeared in the bakery’s doorway, wearing suits and awkward smiles.  Gabe vanished upstairs to unearth someone’s camera (the others were under no illusions that the baker wouldn’t invade their apartments if he couldn’t find one in his). Meanwhile, Sam surreptitiously snapped photos with his phone while Krissy’s date tried to convince her to share some cupcake and Ben tried to meet Castiel’s eyes without dying of pure fear. Dean was no help, quietly egging on both sides of the cupcake debate and just giving regretful shrugs when Ben tried to silently enlist his help in an attempt to escape Castiel’s harsh stare.

                  Gabriel reappeared with the camera in time for Krissy to cave and give the poor boy some pastry and Ben to have avoided spontaneous combustion due to Cas-stare.  “Okay, duckies, now remember, however you look now is how you’ll look on this batch of blackmail items, so make your poses good ones, you’ll be seeing these again in twenty years!”

                  “Duckies?” Dean scoffed. 

                  Gabe shrugged, “Eh, it was worth a shot.” 

                  Teenagers smiled and the camera flash flared and rich light seeped out of their little haven, coloring the twilight gold. 

…

                  Days later Castiel sat in a graveyard, a headstone at his back, grass swishing gently against his legs as dew soaked sleepily through his trousers. He could feel the words carved into the stone pressing their message into his back, trying to claim him as part of this place.  But his trenchcoat was thick and by the time he reached the entrance in a few hours any remnants of the letters would have disappeared from his skin.  The dead couldn’t mark him so easily.

                  There was irony in that, if he bothered to look for it.

                  He didn’t, though.  Now wasn’t really the time. 

                  Thin blonde strands of light were just now bleeding over the horizon, staining the world with the beginning of the day.  Castiel had been here for hours, though, drawing by feel rather than sight, letting the pencil roam across the page of his sketchbook, eyes closed and half-dreaming as he shaped his thoughts in graphite and lead.

                  He didn’t have much to say to the headstone behind him. There was too much behind them and not enough ahead of them to justify long conversation. 

                  When golden morning light stroked across his page, kissing his hands and baptizing his pencil he fell still, pausing for a breath as his eyes roamed across the image before him.  There wasn’t much to it.  Not much that could be defined by human words, anyway.  Plenty of detail and a dearth of adjectives.  But there was something holy there, almost angelic.  A lazy or casual observer might have skimmed it, muttered something about symmetry and walked away. 

                  There was irony in that too, Castiel pondered as he traced the outline of the constellation Gemini as it wound through the image.

                  The constellation was clean, precise in a way the rest of the drawing wasn’t. Castiel could feel the tattoo in his shoulder pulse, like its own independent heartbeat, warming him through and sending blood into his veins. 

                  The drawing’s symmetry wasn’t perfect.  No, it was slightly off, damaged or perfected by a slip of a pencil and the passage of time.  But only a trained observer would see that.  If they saw it at all. 

                  Castiel traced the shadows and strokes of the image with his eyes. There was something final about the drawing in his hands; although he couldn’t really say was it literally _was._ Somehow it had moved beyond that, taken some concept of his unconscious and blown it into abstraction. 

                  Not really knowing why he did it, Castiel closed the notebook and brought it up to his chest, wrapping his arms around it like it was a small child he could keep safe.  “Goodbye, Jimmy,” he whispered into the shadows of the sunrise. 

                  “Amelia, did Claire tell you about the school dance she went to a week ago?” he murmured to the headstone at his back, “She wore the most beautiful light azure dress.  Ellen and Mary helped her pick it out.  Lisa did her hair. She was lovely. Really beautiful. I hope she tells you about it the next time she visits.  You know, I would have liked to show you pictures. Oh well,” he sighed into the morning, “Goodbye, Amelia.” 

…

                  He came home slightly damp from graveyard dew and disheveled with his own restlessness.  He peered into Claire’s room, finding her still asleep, hair a shining halo all around her head. Her shoulders rose and fell with easy Saturday-morning contentment.  Castiel smiled and closed her door gently, easing back into the hallway.   
                  He slipped down the hardwood floor, sliding across the polished surface with an ease children would envy.  He came to a stop at the door to his room, less of a disaster zone now and if that wasn’t a metaphor then Gabe’s pastries weren’t a heart attack waiting to happen. He shucked his trenchcoat at the door, letting it pool on the floor along with his trousers. Not bothering with sleep pants, Castiel crawled in bed in his boxers and t-shirt; curling around the form sleeping there. 

                  “Cas? You’re freezing.” 

                  “You’re warm.”

                  “Shaddup, too early.”

                  “Mmm.”

                  “Cas? Tell me a story?”

                  “No, it’s your turn.” 

                  “Is not.”

                  “Dean.”

                  “Too sleepy.”

                  “Mmkay. Still want a story?”

                  “Mmhm. You were telling me how the AngelFall books end.”

                  “I was?”

                  “Mmhm. Need to finish series.”

                  “Can’t. I died.”

                  “Not funny.”

                  “…”

                  “…”

                  “Dean, still want a story?”

                  “Yeah.”

                  “Okay. _Long ago, because no story begins in the here and now, that would be foolish, there’s far too much at stake in the here and now. Legends need to be safely…well, legendary, before they’re told, there was a pair of twins…_ ”

**_Fin_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow…I can’t believe it…Half Price Gemini is done… Whoohoo! Thank you so much everyone who has read this story, my heart overflows with gratitude for you wonderful people. It is because of you guys that this fic is what it is.   
> Now, IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT! There will be A SEQUEL. (see, gratuitous capitalization means extra importance). Yes, I have a full-length multi-chapter sequel planned for Half Price Gemini, it will be entitled Discount Angels and will feature all our favorite Winchesters and Novaks. I’ll be posting a teaser for it here in a week or so. :)   
> P.S the chapter title is from the song Stay Gold by the band First Aid Kit  
> P.P.S the story Cas begins to tell Dean is not a quote from anything, I came up with that intro bit. I simply italicized it to fit the mood.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on my fanfiction.net account (also under the name DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee)


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